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ROSEHEATH POEMS 



MARY R. TrMcABOY 



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CINCINNATI 

ROBERT CLARKE «& CO. 

1884 






Copyright, 1884, 
By MARY R. T. McABOY. 



DEDICATION. 



TO 

• MRS. JOHN W. BISHOP, 

OF NEW YORK, 
AND 

MRS. WILLIAM. W. MASSIE, 

OF HIDAWAY, PARIS, KY. , 

THESE ROSEHEATH POEMS ARE DEUICATED, WITH THE 
MOST GRATEFUL AND TENDER LOVE OF 

m:. r. m.. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

As Wild Birds Weave their Nests, . . . 9 

The Summer Breeze, ..... 10 

God save the Flag of our Native Land, . . .15 

Madeleine, ....... 17 

The Blue Lick Hills, ...... 19 

?Jeneral Logan's Battle-Cry, .... 21 

Sonnet, ........ 2.3 

Noontide in the Highland Meadows, ... 24 

The Spring is Coming, . . . . . .27 

"Allah Kapee," ...... 28 

Alexander H. Stephens, . . . . .29 

Sonnet, ........ 32 

To One Afar, ....... 33 

Philip, ........ 3.") 

Marching Orders, . . . . . .37 

The Nightingale and the Rose, ... 39 

Belle Snowden, ....... 41 

Bring me Mosses, ...... 44 

Lament for the Willow at Ormsbv, . . ,45 

Comrade, is MY Mother coming? .... 50 

Past and Future, ....... 53 

Content, ....... 55 

Serenade, ........ 57 

Sonnet, ........ 59 

God speed thee to Heaven to-day, . . .GO 

(v) 



vi Contents. 

PAGE 

The Heart's unwritten Poetry, ... 62 

The Redbird's Song, . . . . . .65 

The Sonnet, ....... GO 

Dead Flowers, ....... 67 

Thanksgiving, ...... 70 

courtland prentice, . . . . . . 7.s 

November in Kentucky, ..... 75 

Hail to the Oberon, ...... 71) 

Three Pictures, . . . . ■ . . S2 

Not far from Home, . . . . . .84 

In the still Easter-Even, .... 86 

Kentuckienne, ....... 88 

A Fennel Leaf, ...... 90 

Peace, she sleeps at last, . . . . . 9i 

Sonnet, ........ 9i 

The President— Dead at Elberon, . . .95 

Welcome to the New Year, .... 97 

A Song for the Old Year, . . . .99 

Fair like a Flower and shining like a Star, . 101 

Sonnet, ........ 102 

Blanche, ....... 1(J3 

Snow in October, ...... 100 

To Kittie, ....... 107 

My Garden is bright with Poppies to-day, . . 108 

Ida Hamilton, ...... Ill 

A Picture, ........ 112 

Willie Ford Davie, ...... 114 

Morning on the Hills of the Kentucky River, . 116 

Belle Hart Brent, ...... 119 

Kennedy's Creek, . . . . . .122 

Horace, ........ 123 

Memorial, ........ 125 



Contents. vii 

PAGE 
To LiXNET, ....... 127 

In Years gone by, . . . . . .128 

The lost Flower of Chautauqua, ... 130 

Lines, ......... 133 

Oh! Mother, come back from thy Heaven of light, 137 
What is the Charm? . . . . . .139 

Passifloea, ....... 110 

Sonnet, ........ 141 

Wallace, ....... 142 

The Kemble Inspiration, ..... 143 

Sonnet, . . . . . . . .146 

DouisE Parrish— My Child Friend, ... 147 

Sonnet, . . . . . . ..149 

PiCCIOLA, ....... 150 

Emma Hickman, . . . . . . .151 

New Forest, ....... 153 

Look not thou upon the Wine, .... 156 

Seventy Years, ...... 158 

What Next? . . . . . . .160 

Hebe, ........ 162 

Owen Meredith's Fair Lucile, . . . .164 

Sally, ........ 166 

Sonnet, ........ 168 

A Song for this beautiful Christmas time, . 169 

The Crowning of the Rose, . . . . .171 

Mattie Givens, ...... 174 

A Prayer, ........ 176 



ROSEHEATH POEMS. 



AS WILD BIRDS WEAVE THEIR NESTS, 
• I AVEAVE MY SONG. 

To E. M. M. 

AS wild birds build their nests I weave my soug, 
As liappy and unconscious of my art, 
Save that I break the fibers of my heart, 
To tie the fragments all complete and strong. 
Linking some height of joy with depth of wrong. 
That haply in the great world's crowded mart. 
Some weary wayfarer shall stand apart 
And say, " These lights and shades to me belong." 
For God and Nature taught me all I know ; 
He gives the inspiration swift and sweet, 
The priceless power to make my work complete; 
I catch from her, as she from him, the glow 
Of lights that to the inner heaven belong, 
And as the wild bird weaves, I weave my song. 

(9) 



10 Tlie Summer Breeze. 



THE SUMMER BREEZE. 

To A. R. T. 

Sweet siuging Summer Breeze, 

So gently wandering by, 
What are thy tales of the deep blue sea. 

And the mountains green and high ? 
I know thy path has been 

O'er isles of balm and bloou) ; 
Then tell of each bright and joyous scene. 

For my heart is sick Avith gloom. 

" I have wandered far o'er the foaming brine, 
Where the dolphins gleam and the pure pearls 

shine ; 
I freshly waked where the dying sun 
Proclaimed that the bright, bright day was done ; 
Through the ship's white sails I gently crept, 
AVhere the sailor's midnight watch was kept ; 
And I sang by the light of the first pale star 
Of his babes and his cabin home afar. 
I lifted his locks with a touch as bland 
As the loved caress of his mother's hand ; 
But I hushed my song and softly slept. 
For the strong man lifted his voice and wept ; 



The Summer Breeze. 11 

I had sounded tlie depths of his true heart well, 
For the love of home is a holy spell. 

At the early dawn I have SAvept in pride 

Through the lordly oaks on the niountaiu side ; 

And I ruffled the eagle's kiugly crest 

As he soared to his bold serial nest ; 

I have wandered through groves of orange bloom, 

And my wing was laden with rich perfume. 

fresh and sweet is the Summer Breeze, 

When it roams through isles of the glittering seas, 

For I steal the odor of myriad flowers 

As they burst to life in those fadeless bowers — 

A passionate wooer of bud and bell, 

And I moaned in the heart of the ocean shell, 

1 dallied in glee with the silvery wave, 
And softly sighed o'er the maiden's grave. 

And when the day was almost spent, 

I gently stole to the mission tent ; 

Oh, a consecrated group were there, 

Bowed at the sunset hour, in prayer. 

The man of God for the heathen plead. 

And tears o'er their darkened w^anderings shed ; 

I whispered among that kindred band 

Of their native home and fatherland ; 

But the voice was firm, and the cheek blenched not. 

Though each early scene was unforgot ; 



1 2 The Summer Breeze. 

They followed on in a blood-stained track, 
Bought with a price, and they looked not back. 
And the souls they have won from Error's night 
Shall shine in their crowns like gems of light." 

Sweet singing Summer Breeze, 

Thou wak'st a haunting thirst. 
To be with brighter things than these, 

Where cooler fountains burst. 
Oh ! bear me on thy wing 

To some pure clime of bliss, 
Or back the dead, the absent bring. 

My spirit mourns in this. 

" I have wandered far among all things free, 

I have crossed the waves of the deep blue sea ; 

I have sadly sung in the desert lone, 

I have sobbed where the forest pines make moan ; 

I have roved through the mightiest fanes of art. 

And have murmured low in the rose's iieart. 

I have sailed on the river's placid breast. 

But I found not the friends thou hast loved the best : 

I sighed o'er the mounds where their ashes sleep, 

Where their guard the mission seraphs keep ; 

But the bright freed spirits that passed on higli, 

Beyond the stars, and beyond the sky, 

I met them not ; they are far away, 

Where cloudless sunshine illumes the day. 



The Summer Breeze. 13 

The wing- of the siuging Summer Breeze 
Has beeu amid sadder things than these ; 
I was seut as they sent the mission dove, 
O'er the trackless wastes of earth to rove, 
To dwell amid all things most loved and fair. 
To fold my wing with the bright and rare ; 
Yet no green dingle so dark and low. 
Where my breathing sweet I must not bestow ; 
I steal to the captives narrow cell, 
With a voice of home from his native dell ; 
I linger long in the chamber where 
The dying pine, for the pure fresh air. 
When the mourner faints in her deep despair, 
My sweetest odors are wafted there. 

Ah ! mine is a blessed ministry, 
Though oft afar from the gay and free, 
Though oft to the new-made grave I'm sent, 
And my song with the weeper's wail is blent. 
And still through stormy and sunny days 
My breath is the breath of grateful praise. 
And thou, frail, pining child of dust. 
Fix on the Highest thy fervent trust, 
The angel's wing alone may bear 
To the cloudless clime, where all is fair. 
There are homes of want for thy feet to fiud. 
There are broken hearts for thee to bind. 



14 The Summer Breeze. 

And the longest life too short will be, 
To labor for Him who died for thee." 

Sweet singing Summer Breeze, 

Let me thy mission share ! 
I pine in sorrowing scenes like these, 

My brothers grief to bear. 
Where'er my path may be, 

Whether in storm or shine. 
Oh! be my blessed ministry, 

Gladly fulfilled as thine. 



God save the Flag of our Native Land. 15 



GOD SAVE THE FLAG OF OUR NATIVE 
LAND. 

To MY Father, Walker Thornton. 

God save the flag of our Native Land, 

The glorious banner of stripes and stars ; 
Crushed be the treacherous, craven hand, 

That its hallowed and blended beauty mars; 
Long hath it gallantly floated out. 

Our ensign of freedom, on sea and shore, 
And the sovereign people, with loyal shout, 
Shall rally around it foreverraore. 
American freemen, hand to hand, 
A bulwark to guard it well shall stand : 
God save the Flag of our Native Land. 

It gladdened the eyes of Washington ! 

John Hancock swore to defend it well : 
At Yorktown, Bunker, and Bennington, 

Hei'oes defending it, bravely fell ! 
Shot and saber were naught to thera, 

Guai'ding our banner, bought with blood, 
A scar for its sake was a diadem, 

Coveted nobly by field and flood. 



16 God save the Flag of our Naiioe Land. 

American freemeu, haud to haud, 

A bulwark to guai'd it well shall stand : 

God save the Flag of our Native Land, 

Anberson guards our flag to-day, 

With his gallant band all staunch and true ; 
When a thousand years have passed away, 
Sumter shall loom o'er the waters blue ; 
A monument true to the Stripes and Stars, 

They are dear as the veins that warm the heart ; 
Crushed be the craven hand that mars 
Their beauty, or tears the folds apart. 
American freemen, haud to hand, 
A bulwark to guard it well shall stand ; 
God save the Flag of our Native Land. 



Madeleine. 17 



MADELEINE. 

To Mrs. Helen Kelly Forman. 

The moon is up — the night is waning fast, 

My boat is ancliored by the pebbled shore, 
And I have lingered here to look my last 

Wpon the home that may be ours no more ; 
To keep again an old familiar tryst, 

To clasp thy gentle hand once more in mine, 
And braid thy hair with flowers by night-dews 
kiss'd, 

While o'er thy upturned brow the young stars 
shine, Madeleine. 

Dost thou recall to-night the beauteous time 

When in these fragrant woods I met thee first : 
While faintly fell the vesper's holy chime. 

Thy maiden charms upon my vision burst? 
The sun was setting in a golden glow, 

His parting glance beamed bright on flower and 
tree, 
A roseate hue had tinged the mountain snow, 

But these were naught, for thou wert all to me, 

Madeleine. 



1 8 Madeleine. 

How oft to me upon the battle's eve, 

That picture of the past comes floating by ; 
And then my inmost spirit doth receive 

The tender glances of thy soul-lit eye. 
The west wind dallies with thy mantle's fold, 

Beneath the arch where myrtle branches meet, 
And softly fans thy ringlets' wavy gold, 

That almost ripple to thy tiny feet, 

Madeleine. 

And then I hear the full, majestic swell 

Of the deep organ in the old church aisle. 
And thy dear voice that softly rose and fell, 

Moi^e sweet to me than seraph's tone the while . 
I start to hear the cannon's booming sound. 

The clash of steel upon the deej) mid sea. 
The conflict's roar the anthem notes have drowned, 

The war-cloud dimmed that vision bless'd of thee, 

Madeleine. 

Yet i:)ledge once more, dear love, before we part. 

While o'er thy upturned brow the young stars 
In fearless faith, to me, thy guileless heart, [shiue, 

Ere sails our ship across the foaming brine. 
The moon is up, the night is waning fast, 

My boat is anchored by the pebbled shore. 
And I have lingered here to look my last 

Upon the home that may be ours no more, 

Madeleine. 



The Blue Lick Hills. 19 



THE BLUE LICK HILLS. 

They have brought me mosses from fanes of art, 

Jewels from Orient lands, 
Where nature kissed by a tropic sun. 

With an Eden bloom expands. 

Moss from the fountain of Vaucluse, 

And thyme from Rydal mount ; 
Ivy and heather from la belle France, 

You may on your fingers count. 

And a clover blossom culled from the lawn — 

Ah ! Marie Antoinette — 
Of the Tuileries long ago. 

For this ray eyes are wet. 

Fair France ! my mother's ancestral home. 
How the depths of my full heart burn, 

To the tender story of Malmaison, 
The valor of Auvergne. 

These ferns were brought from a beetling crag, 
Close by an Eagle's nest — 



20 The Blue Uck Hills. 

More precious the Blue Lick grass that droops 
O'er tlie red bird's matchless crest. 

This essence rare from Damascus came, 
Where the ice-cold Lebauou flows ; 

The quaint small crystal marvel holds 
The precious breath of the Rose. 

But sweeter the breath of the Blue Lick hills, 
The cedars with berries crowned, 

The wild Mouardis that hides in the clefts, 
The mosses that deck the ground. 

You may take my treasures — my treasures all, 

Memorials of unknown lauds. 
But bring me mosses and grasses sweet 

From the Blue Lick in your hands. 

I pine with a captive's sad unrest, 
With the grief of a homesick child, 

For something culled from their precious soil, 
Fragile and sweet and wild. 

I know, I know how each dainty gem 

Your unworn spirit thrills, 
But the Mecca haunts of my heart's dear love 

Are Kentucky's Blue Lick hills. 



General Logan's Battle- Cry. 21 



GENERAL LOGAN'S BATTLE-CRY. 

"don't fear death, men, fear only dishonor." 

Rallying charge of Brigadier-General John A. Logan, to his 
men at the Battle of Fort Donelson. 

From Douelsou's steru, serried heights, 
For our couutry — God's blessing upon her ! 
Rings out Logan's brave rallying cry : 
" Don't fear death, men, fear only dishonor ! " 
Charge bravely for Douglas to-day. 
Where " patriots and traitors" are meeting ; 
Tho' dead he shall win the proud field. 
While we shout a victorious greeting. 

Remember the land of the West — 

Our homes toward the sun's golden setting — 

That the hearts which have loved us the best 

May have naught for reproach or regretting ! 

Strike home for our banner to-day — 

For our country— God's blessing upon her! 

For the blood -baptized flag of the free ; 

" Don't fear death, men, fear only dishonor ! " 



22 General Logan^s Battle- Cry. 

Brave words, of a brave, loyal heart, 
Fair sunlight for death's frowning portal; 
Embalm, them, O centuries grand, 
In their patriot beauty, immortal! 
Ring out that brave rallying cry — 
For our countiy — God's blessing upon her! 
For the blood-baptized flag of the free — 
" Don't fear death, men, fear only dishonor ! 



Soniiet. 23 



SONNET. 

Oh, I am faint and famished for the flowers! 
Through days of darkest storm they gave me 

cahii : 
For wounds that inly bled, they brought me balm ; 
My privy counselors, through trial hours ; 
JNIy nurses that restored my wasted powers 
Of heart and brain ; my lovers sweet and true ; 
My chilch'en, nestling near me in the dew ; 
My loyal-hearted friends, my precious flowers ! 
My teachers of a brighter life than ours. 
I read the lessons on their faces dumb, 
The blessed promise of the life to come, 
A resurrection fairer than the flowers ! 
They were my pi-eachers through the summer 

hours, 
And I am faint and famished for the flowers ! 



24 Noontide in the Highland Meadows. 



NOONTIDE IN THE HIGHLAND 
MEADOWS. 

Noontide in the Highland meadows ! 
Noontide dewy and sweet ; 
The summer heavens above me, 
And mosses beneath my feet. 
And fringing the rippling brooklet 
Are flowers crimson and white, 
And the forest birds are sweeping 
Far out through the realms of light. 

The woodland sprites are leading 
My feet through the sedgy grass, 
Where sparkling in endless laughter, 
The cool, sweet waters pass. 
We are caught in the vine's green tanglet. 
Now we wade through the pebbly bed, 
The cool, sweet waters below us. 
The bright sky overhead. 

But hark to the sudden splashing ! 
The rain-drops fast and free. 
Are wakening the grand old forest, 
To their summer minstrelsv. 



Noontide in the Highland Meadows. 25 

And the wild, weird mountain echoes 
Have caught up the sweet refrain ; 
x\.nd the waters laugh in gladness 
To the sound of the rippling rain. 

Oh ! Highland summer meadows, 

In your light so far away ; 

My full heart breaks for the beauty 

Of your rippling streams to-day ; 

For the flowers fringing their margin, 

The flowers crimson and white. 

And the birds that thro' their golden depths 

Are chantiug their wild delight. 

While I am pining, a captive, 

Alone in a silent room, 

Shut in from the glorious summer light 

And the summer's rosy bloom, 

My roses in regal splendor 

Die, out in their lonely beds. 

And my jasmine from her golden urns 

Her peerless perfume sheds. 

Oh ! beautiful Highland meadows. 
With your plumes of feathery white; 
Oh! crimson Monardis, all unculled. 
In the summer's golden light. 



26 Noontide in the Highland Meadows. 

Only iu dreams I greet ye, 

So free, so far away ; 

And my full heart breaks for the beauty 

Of your rippling streams to-day. 



The Spring is Coming. 27 



THE SPRING IS COMING. 

The Spdug is comiug! on the distant hills 
Floats out her matchless veil of purple mist, 
Crowned with the sunshine, by the glad winds 

kissed. 
And heralded by laughter of the rills. 
Until the heart of Nature wakes and thrills, 
And flowers, like happy children, where they list, 
Spring up to clasp her robes of amethyst. 
A wordless melody the soft air fills, 
And in sw-eet interludes the rain distills ; 
While the ecstatic harmonies we list, 
We hail the Eden that we long have missed ; 
Unblest regret no more the Spirit fills. 
Alas ! we only darken with desj^air 
The happy world that God hath made so fair ! 



28 Allah Kafee. 



"ALLAH KAFEE"— (God is enough.) 

To Rev. Charles W. Forman, Lahore, Northern India. 

I ASK not if the time be day or night; 
I ask uot if the way be smooth or rough ; 
To see His blood-stained footsteps is enough. 

To know my Leader's brave behest is right. 

Watchful and prayerful, girded for the fight, 
I heed uot Satan's imjjotent rebuff — 
I conquer through my Lord — it is enough. 

He giveth songs of gladness in the night, ' 

And joy is born of tears at morning light. 

Enough to know He is my strength and shield, 
Enough to know He crowns me on the field, 

And where His banner floats I hail the right. 
By day or night, in pleasant paths or rough, 
To see His blood-stained footsteps is enough. 



Alexander H. Stephens. 29 



ALEXANDER H. STEPHENS. 

Ills Name an Inspiration and a Benediction."— Rev. T. 
De Witt Talmage. 

Lower our country's flag of stars ; 

Lower the flag half-mast ; 
The last of the grand old galaxy 

To the inner heaven hath passed. 
He crowned our land in her palmiest days, 

He wept through her conflict dire, 
But the eloquent tongue is cold and dumb, 

Shattered the heart of fire. 

The last of the grand old galaxy, 

Crittenden, Calhoun, and Clay, 
And Webster, glorious Star of the North, 

From his vision had passed away — 
Yet his steadfast light was a shrine of pow'r, 

A beacon on land and sea, 
He needed no pomp of Church or State 

For the wondering world to see. 

AVrong stood abashed, and hailed the right, 

Before his kindling eye ; 
And wounded things drew near his side, 

In peace assured to die; 



30 Alexander H. Stephens. 

For tlirough all changes, near or far, 
And through all gain or loss. 

He worsliiped the great Jehovah's name, 
He lived by the power of the Cross. 

We only say at the set of sun, 

The west with gold is aflame. 
And so his name is ablaze with light. 

For the scroll of his country's fame ; 
And many a throne in its crumbling pride, 

Glistening with jewels rare, 
Held not the power to cheer or bless, 

Linked with his flower-crowned chair. 

A tender idyl of rare romance. 

Brightened his life like gold ; 
And blessings gave to other lives. 

Gracious and manifold. 
So pure w'ere his daily ministries, 

So lifted above the strife, 
What marvel his home became a slirine, 

And his death a glorious life ? 

The lordliest spirits in all the land 

Bowed low before his bier ; 
And dusky forms, in their wordless grief. 

For their tribute gave tear on tear. 



Alexander H. Stephens. 31 

He needs no marble of classic mold, 
No praise from eloquent mouth : 

Asleep, like the fiibled breath of the rose, 
He sweetens the heart of the South. 



32 Smnet 



SONNET. 



The tliistle-clown soared up to meet the sun — 
T[ie wayside nursling of tlie summer shower — 
A matchless purple tint its only dower, 

That blanched to whiteness ere the day w'asdone. 

Though ceaselessly her web the spider spun 
To hide the splendor of the day-god's jiower, 
Yet, vaiuly still, the vailed and fettered flower — 

The thistle-down — soared up to meet the sun. 
The wind's wild playmate through the summer day 

Soared to the sun it worshiped from afar; 
The whiteness caught the glint of golden rays, 

In triumph passed beyond a rainbow bar; 
The wondering world looked on with words of 
praise. 

And lips inspired named the flower a star. 



To One Afar. 33 



TO ONE AFAR. 

By M. R. M. 

Where art thou? On the waters wide, 

Where sweej) the wild winds free? 
And o'er the waves as thou dost glide, 

Comes there a thought of me? 
As o'er thy hushed and peaceful sleep 

The watch-light faintly gleams, 
Does that sweet thought of me still keep 

Its place amid thy dreams? 

Where art thou? By the blazing hearth, 

Cheered by a chosen friend? 
And in that light and sparkling niirtli, 

Say, does my image blend ? 
And when the loving ones depart, 

Amid each farewell word, 
Is there of me, within thy lieart, 

One fond remembrance stirred ? 

Where art thou ? In the woodlands dim. 
Where the sere leaves are shed, 

As sadly droops each rustling limb, 
MourniuQ- the summer fled ? 



34 To One Afar. 

And in thy musings sad and lone, 

Of all things fair and free, 
That from the faded woods have gone, 

Is there a thought of me ? 

Upon the wave, or by the hearth. 

Or on the woodland hill. 
May peace that cometh not of earth 

All thy rapt spirit fill ! 
By day or night, in joy or grief, 

Wherever thou may'st be. 
As sunlight on the verdant leaf, 

God's blessing rest on thee. 

When light and careless thoughts depart. 

Thy noble image gleams 
Within my shut and silent heart — 

Thy voice is in my dreams ; 
And when is past the calm, still night, 

And gentle slumbers flee, 
Still with the glorious morning light 

There is a tliouiiht of thee. 



Philip. 35 



PHILIP. 

Philip, our kingly boy, is dead! — 
Dead, iu the freshness of the summer day ; — 
The himbs and butterflies are out at play 
In the warm sunshine; golden-belted bees 
Flit to and fro amid the blossoming trees; 
And through the joyous day, and all night long, 
The happy birds repeat their endless song. 
And over all the blossom-broidered ground 
The sweet, low laughter of the brooklets sound. 
Only oiw harp of sweetest note is hushed ; 
Only our vase of rarest odors crushed. 
The wingkl arrow to its bright mark sped. 
The fairest light of the home-altar fled. 
And, in the midst of joy and light, 
The very day seems night : 
Philip, our kingly boy, is dead ! 

Philip, our kingly boy, is dead ! — 
Our wee, bright blossom, shaken by a breeze. 
Twice had we borne him over perilous seas ; 
But, like a fearless bird, and light of wing, 
Amid the storm he learned to soar and sing; 



36 Philip. 

Yet was bis rest not with that " wild uproar" — 

With violets crowned, he sleeps upon the shore. 

Oh, golden jessamine ! when day grows dim. 

Swing silently thy censers over him ; 

Guard his sweet rest with happy things like these, 

When we are far away on distant seas. 

The daintiest jewel worn upon our heart, 

Our baby— -of our very life a part : 

For him storms beat never more. 

Bright bird nestled on the shore : — 

Philip, our kingly boy, is dead ! 



Marching Orders. 37 



MARCHING ORDERS. 

To Col. S. D. Bruce, New York City. 

Marching orders, at dead of night ! 

The soldier asleep on his armor lay ; 
Swift to his teut came the steru command, 

" Marching orders for break of day ! " 

Marching orders ! he questioned not, 
The will of his Captain was law to him ; 

And the tents were struck, and the steeds led out. 
Long ere the midnight stars grew dim ! 

And a gallant band rode fearlessly on, — 
They had marching orders for break of day ; 

And the post of danger was reached and held, 
And a victory won in the battle-fray. 

Oh, the soldier's life is a brave, glad life. 
And vowed alone to his country's call ; 

And the valor that safely her honor keeps. 
He counteth the bravest deed of all ! 

Shall the soldier of Christ less loyal be 

To the Savior, who died on the Cross for him ? 



38 Marching Orders. 

And inarching orders for break of day, 

Not met ere the midnight stars grow dim ? 

Shall the red gold rust in the coffers full, 
And the soldier of Christ a recreant be, 

While memories press on his inmost soul, 

Of the garden lone, and the blood-stained tree ? 

With a vigilant watch for the wily foe, 
And a steady hand for the master's work ; 

On his armor he sleeps at dead of night, 
Waiting his orders in deserts murk. 

Oh, the Christian's life is a brave, glad life, 
And vowed alone to his Captain's call; 

And the service that saves a soul for Him, 
He counteth the grandest deed of all. 



The Nightingale and the Rose. 39 



THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE ROSE. 

Inscribed to Mrs. Richard H. Menefee, of Kentucky. 

The Nightingale sang, iu the days of old, 

To his lady-love, the Rose ; 
When she blushed in primal loveliness, 

In Eden's blest repose. 

Thro' the silent hours of the starlit night 

He poured his passionate lay ; 
Nor ceased till the watching angels oped 

The golden gates of day. 

And still in Oriental lands 

He warbles that olden strain ; 
For time hath sought his faith to win 

From the Queen of flowers in vain. 

And still on the glow-worm's emerald heart 

He feeds in those Eastern bowers ; 
And pours the hoarded gems in song, 

Thro' the still night's witching hours. 

But he wears no more the gorgeous tints 
He wore in that early day ; 



40 Tlie Nightingale and the Rose. 

Aud a moauiug soimd, like the exile's grief, 
Pervades his trembling lay. 

A pilgrim lover, iu russet brown, 

For her sweet sake he sings ; 
With a pointed thorn in his pining heart, 

All hidden beneath his wings. 

Ah ! beautiful seemeth the night-bird's love, 

For his flower, the glorious rose ; 
As true in her dim and lonely lot 

As in Eden's bright repose. 

But truer the love I bear to thee, 
Aud my nightly songs are wrought 

From brighter gems than the glow-worm's heart. 
The jewels of deathless thought. 

The Nightiugale's love for the rose will die 

With the ftiding light of time ! 
But mine for thee shall forever live 

In a fair and genial clime. 

A lovelier life shall then be thine 

By heaven's unfailing springs ; 
And the spirit that weaves this simple lay 

Shall wear an angel's wings. 



Belle Snoivden 41 



BELLE SNOWDEN. 

Dedicated to my Sister, Mrs. Mary Christy McAboy, of 
Bellevue, Pennsylvania Highlands. 

When I shall sleep the sleep that knows no wak- 
ing, 

Come thou, sweet love, beside my narrow bed ; 
No hopeless sorrow, thy dear heart be breaking, 

Be filled with peace, with hope divine instead. 
Of the syringa, break a bough in blossom — 

Its milk-white flowers I gathered oft for thee — 
And softly strew on pallid brow and bosom 

Their dewy leaves, memorials sweet to me 
Of that serenest summer-time and thee, 

Belle Snowden. 

Bereaved and sorrowful when first I met thee, 
Thy young life in its fresh and fragrant prime, 

How could my heart for other friends forget thee, 
Thou whose bright beauty charmed that sum- 
mer-time. 

As the green ivy to the broken columu, 
Did thy true-loving spirit cling to me; 

Too desolate my life had been, too solemn, 



42 Belle Snowden. 

But for thy genial heart-light shiuiug free 
All that sereuest summer-time for me, 

Belle Snowden, 



How for such stillness had my spirit panted, 

As pants the stricken heart for hidden streams ; 
How oft have memories my spirit haunted, 

Of thee and that blest home, in nightly dreams ! 
The evening song that gushed for very pleasui^e. 

His deep-toned voice who chanted oft with thee. 
While happy hearts beat time to that light meas- 
ure ! 

We can not sing the song for tears, since he 
No earthly summer-time again shall see, 

Belle Snowden. 

Still true to thee in waking hours or sleeping, 

Tho' long my path fi'om thine hath led apart, 
Thy picture fair, all fairer for the keeping. 

Lights the love chamber of my inmost heart. 
I cannot tell if my poor faith shall falter. 

As coming days bring bliss or woe to me, 
I only feel no change of time can alter 

The tender love my spirit owned for thee. 
Till the eternal summer-time shall be. 

Belle Snowden. 



Belle Snowden. 43 

And when I (<leep the sleep that knows no waking, 

Come thou sweet love beside my narrow bed ; 
No hopeless sorrow thy dear heart be breaking, 

Be filled with peace, with hope divine instead. 
Of the syringa break a bough in blossom — 

Its milk-white flowers 1 gathered oft for thee — 
And softly strew on pallid brow and bosom 

Their dewy leaves, memorials sweet to me. 
Of that sereuest summer-time, and thee, 

Belle Snowden. 



44 Bring me Mosses. 



BRING ME MOSSES. 

To H. W. T. 

Oil! briug me mosses from the Ormsby Sprinu! 
The old bright spring at Ormsby, cool and sweet; 
The crystal waves have flashed about my feet, 
When I was like a wild bird on the wing. 
The mate of every free and fearless thing, 
Fearless and free as they, and still more fleet, 
Through storm and shine, our trysting place t(j 

greet. 
Where first I learned to find the " Faery's Ring.'' 
Oh ! bring me mosses fair, that fringe the spring ! 
But for sweet Providence the crystal wave. 
In childhood's happy day had been my grave ! 
A picture of that summer baptism bring, 
And let the speckled pebbles small and fine, 
Like braided gems upon the mosses shine ! 



Lament for the Willow at Onmhij. 45 



LAMENT FOR THE WILLOW AT ORMSBY. 

To E. P. P. 

Willow, by the water-courses nevei' more thy 

place shall be, 
Thou, art fallen ! Thou art shattered, oh ! my own 

ancestral tree ; 
Never more may song-birds nestle, chanting idyls 

on thy boughs, 
Never 'neath thy veiling tresses, human lovers 

breathe their vows ; 
Never with those beaming faces, never with those 

glancing wings, 
Shall thine image be reflected at the meeting of 

the springs. 
In the zenith of thy greenness, hath thy leafy 

crown been cast, 
Crushed ami torn, with dust o'ersprinkled, in the 

pathway of the blast. 

Years ago, a gentle matron planted thee beside 

the springs. 
And the lapse of rippling waters lulled thee with 

their murnuirings ; 



46 Lament for the Willow at Ormsby. 

Thou wert nurst by shower and suusliine, and the 

silvery dew of night 
Lay upon thy budding branches, till the dawn of 

morning light ; 
Bright eyes watched thy fine expansion, full of 

majesty and grace, 
Till thy lineaments grew precious as some sweet 

familiar face ; 
x\nd thou seenied'st gladly conscious of our fond 

imaginings, 
By the waving of thy tresses, beauteous guardian 

of the springs. 

Oh! the spring-like days of winter, when I watched 

thy budding leaves, 
Golden in their fair unfolding, as the autumn's 

garnered sheaves. 
Fearing March, the stormy regent, might disjilace 

thy regal fringe. 
Ere the snuny, changeling April touched it with 

an emerald tinge; 
Oh ! the dewy eves of summer, when I saw thy 

lingering light 
Fade before the starry advent of the retinue of 

night. 
Then I heard the silvery rustling of my guardian 

angel's wings — 



Lament for the Willow at Onmbij. 47 

Heard the tiukliug fairy footfalls at the meeting 

of the springs. 
Still those moonlit rings are shining on the fra- 
grant ivy leaves, 
■And each tiny sapphire chalice still the honey dew 

receives ; 
Still the cool, blue, rippling waters, mirror back 

night's starry train, 
But the hearts that loved their beauty, long be- 

« neath the turf have lain ; 
Eyes beloved are coldly sleeping, hands that 

clasped mine own are cold. 
Voices breathing but to bless me, now lie silent in 

the mold ; 
Never more unchecked and joyous, as the bird on 

glancing wings, 
Shall my image be reflected at the meeting of the 

springs. 

I was crushed, as thou, O willow, in the tempest's 
angry strife, 

All the bloom and green leaves shaken rudely from 
my frail young life ; 

In the tearful storm of sorrow, prostrate, stately 
tree, as thou, 

Desolate, bereaved, and lonely, I am broken- 
hearted now ; 



48 Lament for tlie Willow at Onmby. 

And I wander by the waters, vainly seeking there 

to trace 
My sweet mother's gentle beauty, full of meek and 

chastened grace. 
And the joyous child beside her, with its gushing 

laughter's tone. 
But her loving eyes are darkened, they reflect my 

face alone. 

One who sought thy shade beside me, in the au- 
tumn's purple eves, 
When the regal forest offered holocaust of kindling 

leaves, 
Charily her heart unfolding, giving to her fancy 

wings, 
Quaintly crowning me a Naiad at the meeting of 

the springs, 
Greets me here, alas ! no longer, sweeter bonds her 

heai't entwine, 
Offerings bright, and pure, and priceless, glow 

upon her household shrine ; 
Nay, ere yet the lay is woven, she is crowned by 

angel hands, 
By the ever-living fountains, 'neath the tree of life 

she stands. 

Fare thee well ! Thy golden tresses never more 
shall greet me here, 



Lament for the Willoiu at Ormsby. 49 

Never flout above the bridal, never droop above 
the bier ; 

Suuny rays, uor dews, nor showers, bring no wak- 
ening charm for thee, 

Thou art fallen ! thou art shattered, oh ! mine 
own ancestral tree ; 

But a fairer life awaits n»e, far beyond the stars of 
night, 

AVhere fond friends are reunited, and the ran- 
somed walk in white, 

And my heart shall keep thy picture, when I wear 
an angel's wings, 

And my image is reflected in the everlasting 
springs. 



50 Comrade, ib- my Mother comimjl 



COMRADE, I« MY MOTHER COMING? 

Comrade, is ray mother coming ? 

Look out through the wiudow-pane ; 
Sure I heard her geutle footstep ; 

Was it but the falling rain ? 
Shall I die, before I meet her ? 

Lean down, comrade, tell me, pray, 
Let me but a moment greet her, 

And I gladly die to-day ! 

Comrade, do you love your mother? 

Then you know how deep a joy 
It would give mine — though I 'm dying — 

Could she see her soldier boy ! 
Could she see her stripling soldier — 

I remember well that day : 
" He is but a stripling soldier ! " 

Through her tears, I heard her say. 

But she bade me serve my country. 
Though she knew how hiird 'twould be 

In the camp and on the marches, 
For the Old Flag of the Free ! 



Comrade, is my Mother coining f 51 

"For the Old Flag, boy, remember, 

If our flag we fail to save, 
And our country is dissevered — 

Better fill a soldier's grave ! ! " 

And if I could only tell her 

How I bravely bore my part, 
Though I am a stripling soldier. 

Comrade, it would cheer her heart ! 
Lift me in your arms, — and — hold me, — 

Sure I am, my mother comes! 
Comrade, — how my breath is going, — 

Do I hear the fife and drums? 

AVill they bury me to-morrow, 

As they buried one to-day? 
Will my mother stand beside me ? 

Lean down closer, comrade, say, — • 
Do you think they told my mother ? 

It would give her such deep joy, 
Only once — although I 'm dying— 
- Could she see her soldier boy ! 

Lift me, comrade, — closer hold me, — 
Surely she will come — to-day — 

Tell me, — is my mother coming ? — 
Look — and— tell me — comrade, say? — 

For the pangs of death grow stronger, 



52 Comrade, is my Mother coming f 

And my life-blood ebbs away. 
I can wait for her no longer ! — 
Will ray mother come to-day? 

Soldiers, he is dead ! O gently 

Bear him to his soldier rest ; 
With your arras reversed beside him, 

And the Old Flag on his breast ! 
Patriot manhood, battling bravely 

Fatal factions to destroy, 
Gives no more to our dear country 

Than this stripling soldier boy ! 



Pad and Future. 53 



PAST AND FUTURE. 

I DO bethink me of a time, 

A day of desperate sorrow, 
When none, Avith gratulation sweet. 

Said unto me, " Good morrow ; " 
For pleasure from my threshold dark 

Had silently departed ; 
And like a stricken deer I lay, 

Bereaved and broken-hearted. 

And gentle friends around me knelt. 

In tearful prayer bent o'er me. 
Beseeching God to light the waste, 

The desert waste before me. 
With sable coif my tresses hid, 

With sables robed me, weeping. 
For underneath the coffin lid 

My idol love lay sleeping. 

I do bethink me of a time, 
A day unmarred by sorrow, 

When saints, with gratulation sweet, 
Shall say to me, " Good morrow ! " 



54 Past and Ftdure. 

AVhen friends, tlie trusted and the true, 
With words of love shall greet me ; 

And angels from their shining haunts 
Shall hasten forth to meet me. 

And one, who loved me unto death. 

Shall robe my form with whiteness, 
And crown me with a fadeless crown 

Of pure celestial brightness. 
His hand shall wipe my tears away, 

My soul from grief shall sever. 
And wake in my exultant heart 

Fresli springs of bliss forever. 



Content. 55 



CONTENT. 

To Mrs. Catharine Warfield, a Kentucky Poetess. 

Am I content? Ask angels in the splendor 
Of Heaven's empyreal Hglit, if they are blest ; — 
Ask crowned saints if aught can mar the rest 

Of the rapt soul, if God's sweet love defend her, 

The same reply my lips would gladly render, 
Toss'd on the turbulent sea of life's unrest ; — 
As they are, so am I, divinely blest. 

Calm is the soul, if God's sweet love defend her! 
" Peace I leave with ye ; peace I give to ye," 
Spake Jesus tenderly, ere he departed. 
Leaving his poor disciples broken-hearted ; 
" Not as the world gives," flows this peace from me. 
Lit from a living light, eternally the same, 
The darkened crush of worlds can never crush the 
flame. 

I am content, — such tides of joy are meeting, 
Filling with endless freshness heart and brain ; 
I scarce can hear my sorrow's low refrain, 

In the deep flow of their exultant greeting. 

Christ sits in Heaven, my home of bliss com- 
pleting, 



56 Content. 

However dark, he kuows the way I take ; 

And bears the weight of care for my poor sake, 

Until at last I hear his welcome greeting. 

I am content, — for deepening day by day, 
Tints that at first were faint, subdued, and tender. 
Brightening and brightening with the eternal 
splendor. 

Light up witli glory all my desert way. 
Caught from a living light, eternally the same. 
The darkened crush of worlds can never crush the 
flame. 



Serenade. 57 



SERENADE. 



The Minstrel sang in the Orient land 

Of the zephyr's balmy sigh, 
And the flowers that gorgeously expand 

Beneath a cloudless sky ; 
But I, as I wander, wake a song, 

To the glad rejoicing rain. 
That patters and pours and sweeps along, 

Till the old woods ring again ; 
To the stormy dash and the diamond flash 

Of the bright, resounding rain ! 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! for the royal rain, 

With its wild and gleesome shout, 
As over valley and hill and plain 

It idly roams about, 
Wooing each spring and gushing rill 

With myriad, musical words. 
Sweeter than all the songs that fill 

The haunts of the forest birds. 
Ah! sweeter than every sound of earth, 

Those myriad, musical words. 



58 Serenade. 

* 
Sweet was the miustrel's antique strain, 

Of green and starlit bowers, 
But sweeter the sound of the gentle rain. 

That wakens the sleeping flowers. 
That freshens each mossy, shaded bank, 

AVhere the leaves are springing up, 
And fills with nectar the woodland tank 

For the fairies' acorn cup, 
The bright rejoicing rain that falls. 

Where the flowers are springing up. 

Ah ! maiden, wake from thy drowsy dreams. 

Dost hear the rippling rain ? 
List to its myriad, musical themes, 

As it sweeps across the plain ; 
It brings a song for the silent streams, 

A blush for the folded flowers, 
And whispers low, of the sunny beams, 

That follow the genial showers. 
Then waken, oh! waken, maiden fair, 

Awake with the dreaming flowers. 



Sonnet. 59 



SONNET. 

Though He slay mi:, yet will I trust in Hni.— Bible. 

" Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him!' 
A wounded hand the chalice holds for me, 
Wounded, for my poor sake, on Calvary ; 
And His undying love doth gem the rim, 
So lovingly my lips shall meet the brim ; 
As he aloue, in sad Gethsemane, 
Drained to the dregs the bitterest cup for me, 
So patiently I drain the cup for Him. 
Savior, as the commissioned angel came, 
And strengthened Thee, in Thy lone agony, 
In my dark night of sorrow strengthen me, 
Lest I should cast reproach on Thy dear name. 
Death failed His tender love for me to dim — 
" Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him." 



60 Ood speed thee to Heaven to-day. 



GOD SPEED THEE TO HEAVEN TO-DAY. 

To Hon. John Rootejs Thornton. 

"Blessed are they that do His eominandnients, that they 
may hnve right to the tree of life, and may enter in tlirongh 
the gates into the city."— Bible. 

God speed thee to Heaven to-day ! 

To the beautiful home of the blest; 
God give for the toils of thy way 

The balm of His infinite rest! 
With kisses I cover thy face, 

With caresses I cling to thy form ; 
Yet go to the gladness and grace 

Of the sunshine above tlie dark storm ! 

The angels are near thee ; they sing, 

"Alleluia ! " I echo their strains 
To the praise of our Savior and King — 

The Lord God Omnipotent reigns ! 
Thou hast kept his commands, lo ! thy "right" 

In thy glorious freedom from sin ; 
Through the gates to the city's fair height, 

Thou, beloved of the Lord, " enter in ! " 



God speed thee to Heaven to-drnj. 01 

We believe tliat tlie saints are still near, 

In their ministry, walking in white ; 
So I bid thee farewell without fear — 

Thou hast said, "I will keep thee in sight ! " 
Thy Beulah, thy sweet home of rest, 

With the tears and the silence be mine ; 
At the King's marriage supper a guest, 

Be the pleasures of Paradise thine ! 



62 The Hearts unwritten Poetry. 



THE HEART'S UNWRITTEN POETRY 

To Pauline Gregory. 

The heart's unwritten poetry, — 

How beautiful it lies, 
Upon the flowery crimson cheek, 

Within the humid eyes. 
It is the music by the hearth, 

The suulight in the hall. 
Of winsome, Avordless witcheries. 

That kindred hearts enthrall. 

The heart's unwritten poetry, — 

Young children on the lawn, 
Riug out the untaught minstrelsy, 

In freshness like the dawn. 
Sweet sounds that sprinkle diamond dust. 

Upon the wings of Time, 
While lightsome feet wild measure keep. 

Unto the inward rhyme. 

The heart's unwritten poetry, — 
Brighter than sunbeam's fall, 

Is the fair effluence of its light. 
Within the princely hall. 



The Heart's unwrltfen Poetry. G3 

The peasant where the wild vines climb, 

Beside his cottage door, 
Upon the sun-bnrnt baby face, 

Doth con the unwritten lore. 

The heart's unwritten poetry, — 

AVhere stands the foe at bay, 
And gallant hearts lead on the charge, 

Thro' all the bloody fray ; 
From serried hosts, from plumed ranks. 

Amid the clash of steel. 
Grandly for God, and for the right. 

What noble lyric's peal ! 

The heart's unwritten poetry, — 

To guard from fire or wreck. 
As watchfully the sailor treads 

Upon the lonely deck. 
A tenderer, fonder utterance, 
. Of sweetheart and of home. 
Falls from his trembling lips than yet, 

Hath gemmed the clasped tone. 

The heart's unwritten poetry, — 

The hand doth vainly dare 
To sketch its angel blessedness, 

Its passionate despair. 



64 The Hearths unwritten Poetry. 

Art's most resplendent tints are poor, 
To paint the deAV of youth ; 

The hearts heroic martyr-faith, 
The soul's unsullied truth. 

The heart's unwritten poetry, — 

More beautiful by far ; 
It beameth in the dying eye, 

Than light of sun or star. 
It doth illuminate the face, 

Make eloquent the hand. 
By glorious, unuttered signs, 

Of heaven's immortal land. 

The heart's unwritten poetry, — 

lyre of changeful tone, 
Giving unto the ear of God, 

Thy sweetest notes alone ; 
Still shall thy numbers float and flow. 

Sparkling from age to age ; 
But the Omniscient eye alone, 

Shall scan thy fairest page. 



77(6 ReclbircVs Song. 65 



THE REDBIRD'S SONG. 

Upon a branch of my acacia tree, 

The milk-white blossoms flushing to the glow 

Of morning, swinging like censei'S to and fro, 

A redbird perched in a glad ecstasy, 

Fronting the sun, and sang so loud and free, 

My heart was fain to echo soft and low. 

Thank God ! thank God, for this fair sunrise glow ! 

His clearer praises seemed to silence me ; 

His glad exultant call, "What cheer! what 

cheer ! " 
And his sweet instant answer, "Joy! joy! joy!" 
As if in fear that my base earth alloy 
Might dim the luster of his song so clear! 
Yet since that day, in reverential fear. 
My heart repeats his song, " What cheer ! " " Joy ! 

* joy!" 



66 The Sonnet. 



THE SONNET. 

To T. T. O. 

How do I weave the sonnet small and rare? 
Ask of the spider how her web she weaves, 
Lacing, and interlacing thro' the leaves — 
By what sweet art she spins the tissue fair ; 
Ask of the swallow, when the woods are bare. 
And reapers gather in the golden sheaves, 
How he doth find the way his swift wing cleaves, 
Seeking in tropic climes for haunts more fair; 
Ask the small belted bee, his charm most rare, 
To gather honey from the rose's heart ; 
Ask the wild bird to tell her mystic art. 
By which she wreathes her nest with grasses fair. 
Not more may these mute, wild things answer thee 
Than I, of instincts God hath given to me. 



Dead Flowers. 67 



DEAD FLOWERS. 

Written jsy request of Geo. D. Prentice. 

"These flowers my sweetheart gave me — she is 

dead." 
Thus reads the record of this time-worn paper, 
Of life that flashed and faded like a taper, 
Tlie dewy freshness and the sunny glow 
That filled a maiden heart one hundred years ago. 
A beautiful young life, like leaf untimely shed — 
These flowers my sweetheart gave me — she is 

dead. 
The slender stems, bound by a silken string, 
Are still unbroken as tliey first were braided. 
The fragile petals scarce more faintly shaded 
Than when they blushed in all their fair com- 
pleteness. 
And subtly still they yield a marvelous sweet- 
ness. 
O pale, dumb flowers, could ye breathe the 
history 
Of her whose small white hands clasped your frail 

stems. 
While fresh dews crowned ye like diadems, 
Of fond love vailed in such tender mystery ! 



68 Dead Flowers. 

Waken ouce more, oh, delicate azure bell. 
Open thy drooping, drowsy lids once more and tell 
Of the bright, tremulous play of the red lips. 
Of eyes that blue-veined lids hid in a shy eclipse. 

Waken and tell, oh, starry crimson flower, 
Of lightsome steps threading the forest glade, 
Hunting your elfin beauty in the shade, 

Young nursling of the genial sun and shower. 
Small golden drops, trembling in my slight grasp- 
in <>■ 
Circled with leaves like emeralds all ablaze, 
Caught ye that day the sunshine's changeful 
rays, 
In sensitive joy her snowy bodice clasping ? 

Where were ye culled, oh, daintiest milk-white 
bells. 
When wild bees kissed your fragrant breath away. 
And the fleet-footed deer, bearing his death- 
wound, lay 
Mute, where j& fringed the cool, deep forest 

wells, 
Crushing in unshared agony your honeyed cells? 
And did ye flowers, like pearls in whiteness rare, 
Wreathe the long tresses of her ebon hair? 
Whisper, give back the sounds, the scents, the 

glow 
Of glorious summer life one hundred years ago! 
Tell where the fragrant greensward, dark and deep, 



Dead Floivers. 69 

Hath heavil}' pressed, unshcru, above her sleep; 
How long after she slept iu earth's dark mold 
On the white folded arms glittered the crusted 

gold; 
The helpless, upward clasping of the rosy palms, 
That gathered from your leaves ambrosial balms ; 
And did they deck her robes, and crown her head 
AVith your sweet forest mates, when she was dead ? 
Oh, pale, dumb flowers, your mournful record 

keeping. 
Waken no more sad thoughts of her lone sleeping ! 
Of the betrothal, mystical, magical flowers. 
Of which ye were the type in those bright summer 

hours. 
Ye shut the vision out, the sounds, the scents, the 

glow 
Of that sweet summer morn, one hundred years ago. 
I only see the footpath worn through forest glades 
Down to the place of sepulture iu deepest shades, 
Where, year by year, her buried grace and youth 
Were crowned with tender constancy and loyal 

truth ; 
I only gather from the sweetness of your breath 
The sorrowful history of life and love and death, 
And tearfully ask. Who for my sake will keep 
Memorials sweet like these when I shall sleep ? 



70 Thanksgiving. 



THANKSGIVING. 

Dedicated to the "Herald and Presbyter." 

"Serve the Lord with gladness : come before his presence 
with singing." "Because thy loving-kindness is better than 
life, my lips shall praise thee." "Thus will I bless thee while 
I live." "And my mouth shall praise thee with joyful lips." — 
Psalms of David. 

SePvVE the Lord with gladness ! 

All our tribute bring, 
Heart and voice accordant 

With each quivering string. 

Dulcimer and psaltery, 

Harp and timbrel bring ; 
All the loving-kindness 

Of our God we sing. 

Praise our God ! sing praises 

For existence sweet ; 
Sing, for praise is pleasant. 

And an offering meet. 

Praise for light of morning, 
For its breath of balm ; 



Thanksgiving. 71 

Praise for shade of evening, 
For its holy calm. 

Praise for noontide golden, 

When the sun's bright rays 
Crown the earth with gladness. 

For her Maker's praise. 

Praise for night's deep silence ; 

For the light of stars ; 
For the moon's white shining 

Through her cloudy bars. 

Praise for sound of waters ; 

Praise for song of birds ; 
Praise for tender grasses ; 

Praise for sweet-breathed herds. 

Praise for summer flowers ; 

Praise for summer rain ; 
Praise for summer fruitage ; 

Praise for ripened grain. 

Praise for precious pardon, 

Through his wondrous love, 
Making earth an Eden, 

Like the heaven above. 



72 TJianhsgiving. 

Praise for light and darkness ; 

Praise for gain and loss ; 
Praise — if counted worthy — 

We may bear his cross ! 

He is our Creator ! 

He our God and Lord ; 
He is our Redeemer, 

Be his name adored ! 

Serve our God with gladness ! 

Take a psalm, and bring 
Joy and praise accordant. 

With each quivering string ! 



Courtland Prentice. 73 



COURTLAND PRENTICE. 

Ah! Courtland Preutice ! Like a rippliug measure 
Of falling waters, sounds thy name to me ; 

Retinting pictures rare, of summer pleasure. 
Bright haunts of singing bird and humming bee. 

All that is rare and classic, curious places, 
That art hath made divine, or nature claims, 

Draped with her fair, occult, enchanting graces. 
All romance clinging to historic names ; 

Snatches of song, caught from the bard's rapt vision. 
With deeds of gallant daring, wild and free, 

Half of the earth, and half of the elysian. 
My tenderest memories, are linked with thee. 

Ah, me ! to know that thou wert faint and bleeding, 
Thfi crimson tide staining thy pallid lips ; 

Unto love's passionate appeal unheeding, 

Thy glorious eyes darkening in death's eclipse ! 

To know thee dead! Thou, like an eagle soaring. 
Unto empyreal founts of love and light ; 

Exultantly all hidden haunts exploring, 

Thou wast for this dark fate too brave, too bright. 



74 Courtland Prentice. 

Not dead ! not dead ! oh ! be the word unspoken ; 

Proud spirit of the morn, alas for thee: 
AVould God thy blossomed beauty were unbroken, 

Left for ripe fruit on thine ancestral tree. 

Would God the Stars and Sti'ipes had waved above 
thee, 
Thy star of worship on the battle plain ; 
Yet not the less my heart shall mourn and love 
thee, — 
I only know Kentucky's son is slain ! 

God send sweet comfort to thy gentle mother. 
And the young brother who doth share thy 
name ; 

A Nation seeks thy father's grief to smother ; 
Its tear-drops gem his laureled crown of fame. 

Ui^on thy name, my tears drop fast and faster. 
They mingle with that fatal crimson tide ; 

My heart faints for that pitiless disaster, 

My only utterance, " Would he had not died." 

Ah! Courtland Prentice, other hearts may hold thee 
Lightly or sadly, as their love may be ; 

Until the deep death-silence shall enfold me. 
My heart's full chords shall thrill with grief for 
thee. 



November in Kentmikij. 75 



NOVEMBER IN KENTUCKY. 

Hail, fairest month! Wlio called thee dull and 

cold? 
They have not seen thee in my own sweet laud, 
With the resplendence of the bright midsummer, 
With all the freshness of the early spring. 
They have not seen the red November sun, 
Like a great ruby, grandly set beneath 
Thy blue hills, Licking ! Have not seen her moon. 
Like a pearl shallop, float through purple de})ths. 
While in meadows of ethereal roses, 
Hesperus led his shining flock of stars ! 
O saintly Indian summer ! Nature's Sabbath ! 
The golden light that fills this forest old, 
And flecks these russet trunks and kindling leaves, 
Is like the golden light we see in dreams, 
And wakes a thought of that eternal temple. 
Where they shall need earth sunshine never more. 
Thy breath is sweeter than " Sabean odors;" 
The rich flowers thou claspest in thy hands 
Wear the perfumes and the tints of Eden. 
Thy amethystine kirtle, softly blown. 
In gentle dalliance, by the sweet south wind. 
Is looped with gentian buds, of teuderest blue. 



76 November in Kentucky. 

And wlieresoe'er thy charmed footsteps pass, 
The helianthus opes her golden eye, 
And turns to meet the glances of the sun. 
Regal trees, kings of a century's growth. 
Scatter their gorgeous robes on common earth, 
For thy light footstejis ; as a knight of old 
Doffed his gemmed mantle for the maiden queen. 
Clearly now, the cool, blue, tranquil waters 
Do mirror this fair light, thy floating robes, 
The beauty of the w'hite-limbed sycamores. 
And thy resplendent skies, purple and gold ! 
The mosses in the dells do take a tinge 
Of vernal green from thy pervading presence. 
The sprouting grasses, and the tender herbs 
Are fresh and fragrant, where the cattle graze ; 
Thou hast thy own bright train of singing birds, 
And radiant insects glancing in the sun. 
On the brown trunk of this old apple tree 
They shine like gems; among the bending boughs. 
Laden with rosy fruitage, I can hear 
The murmurous hum of bees; in the grass 
Beneath, chirpeth the cricket cheerily ; 
And where the golden-hearted daisies wave, 
Enameled butterflies flit to and fro. 
These sounds and sights so beautiful, thou bring'st 
To all. Me, thou showest a fair picture, 
Unseen by any other eyes, save mine — 
A beautiful young child, of two sweet summers, 



November in Kentuchj. 77 

The winsome playmate of my infant years. 

I do remember well the day she died ; 

It is the first clear memory of my life, 

I being then only in my fifth year. 

When the nurse held me in her arms, to see 

The dear, dead face, I said, " She is asleep!" 

Death w^ore a semblance then so beautiful. 

The sweet south sighed. ftiintly through the lattice; 

The mocking-bird's bright mate, the sweet-brier, 

Crept in to touch her cheek. I saw thee then ; 

Th}' purple robes were floating on the breeze. 

And thy sweet breath perfumed these grand old 

woods. 
When I first knew^ thee, loved Indian summer ! 
And ever hath she lain upon my heart. 
Through silent years, our lost cradle darling. 
Spotless are her delicate robes of snow. 
By soft winds blown away from the small ffeet. 
Upon her breast, like unto nestling doves, 
The tiny dimpled hands cross-folded lie. 
Ui^on the dainty bloom of her young cheek 
The earth-worm hath not rioted. And still 
On the low brow cluster the rings of gold. 
Still doth she sleep ; thou dost not waken her : 
Yet to her lip a dewy sweetness clings ; 
And underneath the broad and fringed lid 
I discern a glimmering of sweet light. 
So, come thou still to beautify the earth. 



78 November in Kentucky. 

With thy deep purple skies, like blossomed heath ; 
Fairer than lioiieyed May, with roses crowned ; 
Sweeter than April, bright with rainbow showers ; 
In her fair arras birdlings and violets ! 
So come, when from the pleasant haunts of men 
My memory shall long have passed away ; 
And by the love that I have borne to thee. 
When thou and I in this Arcadia dwelt, 
Fleck my low, grassy couch with drops of gold ; 
Whisper to me, with thy sweet, subtle airs; 
And from gentian flowers, that loop thy kirtle. 
Strew thou on me buds of teuderest blue. 



Hail to the Oberon. 79 



HAIL TO THE OBERON. 

Dedicated to a bevy of Bourbon Girls. 

Hail to the Oberon ! Fairy craft ! 
Lavender streamers floating aft ! 

Spider-web awnings fine and fair, 
Dimpling and crimpling to kiss the air. 

Crystal waves flash white before, 

In the path to the old Arcadian shore. 

A fire-fly perched on the prow for light 
Will guide the bark at the dead of night. 

Deftly spread on deck for good luck 

Is blue-grass matting from "Old Ken tuck." 

And a grasshopper graye, with wond'rous eyes, 
Is the sentinel guard against surprise. 

Who sails the Oberon ? Bourbon girls. 
Sweet as roses and fair as pearls ! 



80 Hail to the Oberon. 

They speed to the Isles of old Romance, 
To find the ring where the Fairies dance. 

Freight they have gathered of precious things, 
Humming-birds' claws and butterflies' wings ; 

Nightingales' tongues and peacocks' brains. 
And shells for dishes, with Tyrian stains ; 

And ojial bottles, slender and fine. 
To hold the elder-flower wine ; 

And acorn cups of brownest sheen. 

To drink the health of the Fairy Queen. 

Never were rowers so fair to see 

As the rowers who row o'er that crystal sea. 

Never a bark such freightage bore 

As they bear to the old Arcadian shore. 

Would they might take me on board to-day. 
Lest the Elfin craft might sail astray. 

I Avas a pilot long ago, 

Down where the Elfin rivers flow ; 

And straight to the court of the Fairy King 
I have steered the craft and found the ring. 



Hail to the Oheron. 81 

O, fleet rowers, Bourbon girls, 
Rare as roses, and pure as i^earls, 

Take me on board where the spider weaves, 
And give me a hammock of poppy leaves ; 

And let me swing while the rowers row 
To the Elfiu Isles of Long Ago, 

And straight to the court of the Fairy King 
I will steer the bark, and find the ring. 



82 Three Pictures. 



THREE PICTURES. 

nEDICATED TO DR. A. E. JONES, OF CINCINNATI, OHIO. 

From blue-grass meadows down to Belle Riviere, 
A swift, bright journey thro' the autumn rain, 
The Licking river singing a refraiu, 
And tiny brooklets dropping tear on tear, 
For woodlands bare that wail the dying year. 
The lithe young oaks blaze out beside the way 
Like scarlet torches — as old legends say — 
When none may breathe the words of tender cheer, 
They light the lonely pathway for the dead ! 
Like summer, Licking river's low refrain, 
Like summer sounds, the sobbing autumn rain ; 
I reck not if the " kindling leaves" are shed; 
In the l>lue distance all the old regrets 
Are sweet to me as April violets ! 

An "upper chamber" decked by maiden hands. 
The golden autumn sunshine drapes the wall. 
Near the broad window sparrows flit and call 

In salutations brought from foreign lands. 

Yet fettered fast by fever's fiery bands, 



Three Pictures. 83 

I list a ringing step upon the stair — 
They press upon my lips elixirs rare, 

And Jave with tender touch my restless hands. 

And then: the man of God with reverent speech 
Bestows the consecrated bread and wine — 
" For the remission of thy sins a sign 

Of suffering thy trembling heart to teach." 
And, as my Lord upon the Cross was slain, 
So I accept the ministry of Pain. 

Unbound and free, rested from head to feet. 
Of all glad sights and sounds I drink my fill. 
And all my heart's fine fibers wake and thrill. 

To Clerodendron blossoms white and sweet ; 

The Indian summer comes with footstep fleet, 
In robes of amber and of amethyst, 
By winds as sweet as winds of summer kiss'd, 

And lulls me to an ecstasy complete. 

And now the moon goes sailing up the sky, 
A shy, white moon, guarded by watchful stars, 
She sails close-vailed and crossed by fleecy bars 

That shut her in the concave blue and high, 
Until the dawn, when golden as the sun, 
Her crowning with the "aerial rose" is won ! 



84 Not far from Home. 



NOT FAR FROM HOME. 

Suggested by a Sermon from Rev. E. P. Humphrey, D. D. 
Louisville, Ky. 

Wildly the winds tbeir wailing sent, 
Swiftly the circling snow-flakes fell, 
While with the watch-dog's bark was blent 
The rushing torrent's gathering swell ; 
And through the dim and shrouding night 
The cotter hastes to cross its foam ; 
He almost hails the beacon light, — 
Yet dies, and dies not far from home. 

The weary one from foreign land. 
Seeking the charmer health in vain, 
Hasteth to where the household baud 
May soothe with love the parting pain ; 
And while the sun's resplendent fires 
Glitter across the ocean's foam, 
She sees her native city's spires, — 
Yet dies, and dies not far from home. 

The prodigal, who long hath been 
A wanderer from his father's hearth, 
Pines for each dear, familiar scene 
That sanctifies his place of birth ; 



Not far from Home. 85 

Across the deep and treacherous seas 
He comes, from peace no more to roam ; 
He hails the fresh and scented breeze, — 
Yet dies, and dies not far from home. 

And so the soul, that long hath striven 
Against each stern and warning word 
By which the still, small voice from heaven 
Often the inmost heart hath stirred — 
Can almost see the angel band, — 
Upon his ear their anthems come, — 
Earth touches with defiling hand, — 
He dies, and dies not far from home. 



86 In the still Easter-Even. 



IN THE STILL EASTER-EVEN. 

Dedicated to the memory of Mr. Edward O. Fothergill 

"Worth shall look purer, and truth more bright, 
When we think how he lived but to love them." 

Thomas Moore. 

Softly — speak softly, the fair April sky 

Is flecked with white clouds, sailing out to the 
West ; 
He is sleeping — his comrades have whispered 
good-bye ; 
Red and white April flowers are heaped on his 

breast ; 
In the still Easter-even they bade him good-bye ! 

Bravely he lived, a true Knight of the Cross, 
Signed with the sign of his crucified Lord ; 
Through death and the grave he shall suffer no 

loss, 
For his deeds, with his faith, were in fullest ac- 
cord ; 
The faith that gives entrance to life through the 
Cross. 



In the still Easter-Even. 87 

Hearts that have loved him are filled with regret ; 
What soldier as loyal shall stand in his place 

AVhen his name shall be called where his comrades 
are met, 
And reply " He lies dead in his beauty and grace, 
But his true stainless life we can never forget?" 

Lives like his are held priceless, they freshen the 
sod. 
They brighten the pathway that leads to the 
grave ; 
Give hope when the stricken " pass under the rod," 
With the one gift of healing the desolate crave. 
They are stamj)ed with the grandeur and glory 
of God. 



88 Kentuchienne. 



KENTUCKIENNE. 

To Miss Sarah Shanks, of New York. 

Kentuckienne, Kentuckienne, 
The sweet name lingers on the h'p, 

As fine and subtle as the dew, 
That bees from hearts of roses sip. 

Sometimes alone in dreamy mood, 
Almost unconsciously, my pen 

Traces as I would trace a flower, 
In tender lines, Kentuckienne. 

And stronger grows the nameless charm ;- 
Were I an artist I would paint 

The face I fancy pure and still, 
AVith golden halo like a saint. 

Were I a poet I would write 

Her heart's fair history, and then, — 

Tear the light leaves and say, ah ! me,— 
Not worthy of Kentuckienne ! 

The secret charm is in the name, 
Kentucky, our sweet mother land. 



Kentuckienne. 89 

Aud so alike her fame is ours, 

From ocean strand to ocean strand. 

Were we not nurtured on her soil ? 

She holds our dead within her heart : 
From things we treasure not, — our home 

Aud native land are shrined apart. 

In a fair country, far away, 

Shall I not greet Kentuckienne ? 

Our names indelibly engraved 
By the Recording Angel's pen ? 

And there our hands, with lovelinks filled, 
We shall remember that on earth. 

On old Kentucky's storied soil, 

AVe had our matchless j^lace of birth. 



90 A Fennel Leaf. 



A FENNEL LEAF. 

To Florence. 

A FRAIL, fair, feathery fennel leaf. 

Linked with the sumac red. 
And you say, " Ah, Avould that my loving gift 

Might be summer flowers instead ! " 

And yet no graceful gift of flowers 

From palace gardens rare, 
Could ever bring to my inward sight 

A vision half so fair ! 

You see in my hand but a slender leaf, 

Linked with the sumac red : 
I look on a garden flushed with bloom, 

And of long-lost friends instead! . 

Fair women grouped in the sunset walk, 
And men with their proud heads bare, 

And happy children that cling to robes 
In their texture passing fair. 

Clear as an emerald the fennel stalk, 
With its sweetness the air besprent ! 



A Fennel Leaf. 91 

While happy laughter of happy friends 
With the breath of the flower is blent. 

And I, but a shy and dreaming girl, 
From the bright throng stand apart, 

While a wish like a blossom tints and warms 
My eager, expectant heart. 

A wish unbidden, and still and sweet, 

Yet like a torrent strong. 
That away all other ambition sweeps. 

For the glorious gift of song. 

And I say of coniiug days — how sweet 

If, in the sunset walk, 
Some blossomed thought of mine be blent 

With laughter and hapjDy talk! 

O fair young artist, your fhiry hand 

Restores me the picture fair ; 
The friends long lost, and the flowers sweet breath 

Once more in the summer air ! 

And the eager wish of the dreaming girl 

Is still as sweet and strong ; 
For sorrow has swept all else away. 

Save the glorious gift of song. 



92 Peace, she Sleeps at last. 



PEACE, SHE SLEEPS AT LAST. 

To C. E. Babb, D.D. 

Peace ! she sleejis at last, 

The fitful dream of life is ended, 
Death is with the past, — 

Brightly hath her soul ascended. 
Dark the waves, but winged angels waft her o'er, 
Vainly we deplore ; time will ne'er restore, 
Softly now her white feet press the shining shore, 
Blessed now forever more. 
Peace! she sleeps at last, 

The fitful dream of life is ended ; 
Death is with the past, 

Brightly hath her soul ascended. 

All her grief is stilled, 

The weary watch, the faint endeavor ; 
All her hopes fulfilled. 
Perfect joy is won forever. 
Ah ! tho' broken be the golden bowl to-day. 
Hence, with tears away, dim not the beauteous 

clay; 
Tho' on earth the silver cord be loosed for aye, 
The spirit wakes in endless day. 



Peace, she Sleeps at last. 93 

All her grief is stilled, 

The weary watch, the faint endeavor ; 
All her hopes fulfilled, 

Perfect joy is won forever. 

Crowned with light ahove, 

Where no teuder ties are breaking ; 
In the land of love, 

Seraphs are her welcome waking. 
Now her lips have caught that glorious anthem 

swell. 
Sweeter far it fell than mortal words may tell ; 
Angels, in the home of beauty, where ye dwell, 
Guard what we have loved so well ! 
Crowned with light above, 

Where no tender ties are breaking; 
In the laud of love, 

Seraphs are her welcome waking. 



94 Sonnet. 



SONNET. 

To Mrs. Martha Beckner MfKEE. 

" Go thou to Cheritli," rang the clear comiDaud, 
While I sat drinking balm from summer flowers, 
The moonlight tessellating all my bowers, 
And waves of moonlight flooding all the land. 
I turned, and lo! the nail-prints in his hand ! 
" To Cherith ! Hide thyself beside the brook. 
And drink thereof;" — I met his steadfast look. 
And, trembling, laid my face U2:>on his hand. 
"Ravens shall bring thee meat at my command. 
Then I arose, and ran with quick accord. 
According to the good word of the Lord, 
And looked not back upon the pleasant land ; 
And since that time, Cherith has been to me 
All light, and bloom, and summer ecstasy ! 



J 



The President — Dead at Elberon. 95 



THE PRESIDENT— DEAD AT ELBERON. 

"Trust ye in the Lord forever; for in tlie Lord Jehovah is 
everlastiug strength."— Bible: 2Gtli chap. Isaiah, 4tl'i verse. 

For the President — dead at Elberou, 
A million hearts are crushed as one ! 
The wires flash out at dead of night 
The tidings: and lowered at morning light 
The flag of the Nation, on laud and sea, 
And the world cries out in sympathy ! 
The old sea thunders along the beach 
With a power no mortal tongue may teach ; 
" God is the strength of Church and State ; 
Fear Him, for only God is Great! " 
While the tide of sorrow goes surging ou 
For the President, dead at Elberon ! 

O pines of the North, bend low — bend low. 

For a Nation stricken in wordless woe ; 

For the old flag draped and lowered half-mast, 

And hopes that fall like leaves in the blast ; 

For the last lone watch, so vain, so vain. 

Only the tears that fall like rain. 

But the old sea thunders along the beach 

With a power no mortal tongue may teach, 

From the unseen depths to the snow-crowned crest, 

Obedient in storm or in sunshine rest ; 



96 The President — Dead at Elberon. 

Yet the tide of sorrow goes surging on, 
For the President, dead at Elberon. 

O palms of the South, bend low— bend low, 

For the aged mother he reverenced so ; 

For the wife in her heart of loyal truth. 

Who weeps for the lover of her youth ; 

For the children who pine for his fond caress — 

To-day they are lonely and fatherless ; 

And the brave old friends who stood by his side 

When war stained the land with its crimson tide ; 

While the great Northwest in its boundless sweep, 

A guard for his silent rest shall keep. 

And the old sea thunders along the beach 

With a power no mortal tongue may teach. 

For the President — dead at Elberon, 
The tide of sorrow goes surging on ! 
As once for the martyred Lincoln swept 
A sea of tears, from a world that wept ! 
The White House chambers are dim and lone. 
While deft hands fashion the burial stone, 
To tell, as the years go on and on, 
Of the President — dead at Elberon ! 
And the old sea thunders along the beach 
With a power no mortal tongue may teach. 
" God is the strength of Church and State, 
Trust Him, for only God is Great." 



Welcome to the Nexo Year. 97 



WELCOME TO THE NEW YEAR. 

Welcome New Year ! Give me thy clasping hand ; 
While underneath this temple dome, star-crowned, 
We muse upon the Old Year's death together. 
And gather ripe experience from the past. 
For twelve sweet moons perchance we shall be 

friends, 
Thou showing me the beauty of the seasons. 
The regal garniture of vale and hill ; 
The glow of setting suns ; the rosy dawn : 
Fair pictures tinted by our Father's touch. 
And flowers, fresh gifts from our Father's hand. 
And thou wilt fill my ear with charmed sounds 
Of laughing waters, and of singing winds. 
And clear-voiced birds that chant their summer 

idyls ; 
The tinkling rain drops, and the deep-toned thun- 
der. 
That wakes the full heart like the voice of God ! 
And I must walk with thee serene and true. 
Giving for all thy lavish gifts to me 
The ptire endeavor of an earnest heart. 
That stamps minutest work with lofty purpose, 
Transmuting all the sands of time to gold. 



98 Welcome to the Neio Year. 

For twelve sweet moons perchance we shall be 

friends, 
For I may first come to the sepulcher; 
And if so be that I shall pass away 
Before thy days of light and bloom are ended, — 
May I depart like thy resplendent sun, 
That fairer shines, as he doth near his setting ; 
And like thy streams that spring rejoicing forth, 
To mingle witli the bright and boundless ocean. 



A Song for the Old Year. 99 



A SONG FOR THE OLD YEAR. 

A PiEAN for the grandest of the years ! 

A psean for the goldeiiest of years ! — 

The "Star of all the Goodlie Comjxauie" — 

The year that never had its peer in song! 

The dark year, heralded by storm and tears, 

And the wild surging of an angry sea ; 

The bright year, parting like the setting sun, 

Flushed with the gathered grandeur of his Avay ; 

The hushed sea, lapsing in the sunny light, 

The dark shore bright with wealth of gathered 

pearls. 
Washed to their whiteness by the waves of strife. 
The solemn year, baptized by blood and fire ; 
The stricken year, scarred by the conflict dire, 
Yet girdled by the golden ring of peace ! — 
So fairest day is born from darkest night; 
From deepest sorrow springs the purest joy ; 
" Tears make the harvest of the heart to groAv ;" 
And the red gold, that holds no base alloy, 
Is tested in the fierce flame's hottest glow. 

A psean for the goldenest of years ! 

The nations of the earth do chant for him ; 



100 A Song for the Old Year. 

The islands of the sea lift uj) their voice, 

And, immemorial echoes, wild and sweet. 

Shall iterate and reiterate his name. 

Embalm him only in his golden light, 

In his own light, oh centuries august! 

Crowned with the gathered rainbows of the storm 

He passeth out into the light of God. 



Fair like a Floiver, and shining like a Star. 101 



FAIR LIKE A FLOWER, AND SHINING 
LIKE A STAR. 

To Leila Cunningham, Glen Echo, Paris, Kentucky. 

SuEROUNDED by a thronging multitude, 
My heart's fine fibers felt the dissonance, 
And quivered with a weariness intense, 
For some still, shaded moss-grown solitude, 
Where never harsher voices might intrude. 
Than tender winds, that summer balms dispense. 
From summer flowers, that charm the inner 

sense. 
Or wild bird crooning to her sylvan brood. 
Or if I might but see thy soul -lit face : 
When lo ! at once, expectant, from afar, 
Fair like a flower, and shining like a star, 
I saw thee, matchless, in thy maiden grace ; 
Nor knew thy smile of trembling ecstasy 
Its sweetness gathered from a thought of me. 



102 Sonnet. 



SONNET. 

To Hon. George W. Williams, Pakis, Ky. 

Peace to thy silent, sleepiog, faithful friend : 
Green grasses, brightly nursed by sun and 

showers, 
Curtain thy couch through all the coming hours; 
And singing birds their happy anthems blend, 
For joy that thou hast reached thy journey's end ; 
Serene and fearless, cheered by unseen powers, 
Clear to thy vision, dark, alas, to ours. 
Dim with regretful tears, oh sainted friend ! 
"Loving his own, he loved them to the end ; " 
Infinite words of blessiug : it was meet. 
Waiting in meekness at the Master's feet. 
That they should light and crown thy journey's 

end. 
No more we seek to know : "The pure in heart" 
Alone "see God," and where He is thou art. 



Blanche. 103 



BLANCHE. 

Angel wardens! Ye who stand at the pearl 

portal, 
Saw ye Blanche when she became immortal ? 
Doth she walk where living waters flow ? 
Whisper, angels, whisper soft and low. 
Tell with what a shining band, 
Far in the blessed land, 
Blanche, the earth-born, doth abide ; 
Who Avalketh nearest at her side ? 
Who loveth her as we have loved her here ? 
Who charmeth her sweet heart with words of 

cheer ? 
How wooed and won ye so her maiden brightness ? 
Whisper, angels, whisper soft and low. 
Tell with what shining band, 
Far in the blessed land, 
Blanche, the earth-born, doth abide, 
Who walketh nearest at her side. 
Where the living waters flow? 
Only her sweet dust is left for earth's fond keep- 
ing, 
Only her sweet dust, embalmed with weeping. 
Ye have won the spirit bright and rare. 



104 Blanche. 

God hatli fashioned nauglit more pure and fair, 

None of the shining band, 

Far in the blessed land, 
Where Blanche, the earth-born, doth abide ! 
The earth is darker since she died ; 
Heaven more bright since she hath entered there. 
Ye know her by her braids of shiniug hair. 
Tresses that mocked the ripened filbert's bright- 
ness; 
Ye know her, angels, by her vestal whiteness, 
Know her by her fair cheek's fadeless glow. 

Tell with what shining band. 

Far in the blessed land, 
Blanche, the earth-born, doth abide. 
Who listens nearest at her side. 

To her sweet voice, soft and low? 
Angel wardens, ye who stand at the pearl portal. 
Love our Blanche since she is made immortal ; 
Love her deeply, lest our full hearts break. 
We besought the heavens for her sweet sake, 

Tiiat with the shining band, 

Far in the blessed land, 
Blanche, the earth-born, might abide. 
Angels walking nearest at her side. 
All our tenderest wishes are fulfilled. 
Ere a blight of earth her life had chilled. 
In your jeweled walls guard her maiden bright- 
ness. 



Blanche. 105 

111 serenest air guard her vestal whiteness, 
Ouly whisper, whisper soft and low. 
Tell with what shining baud, 
Far in the blessed laud, 
Blanche, the earth-born doth abide ; 
AVho walketh nearest at her side, 
Where the living waters flow ? 



106 Siioiv in October. 



SNOW IN OCTOBER. 

Snow in October ! Lo ! the sparkling wonder ! 
Daintily, deftly, floating here and there ; 
Weirdly dancing, balancing in the air; 
Draping blossomed boughs, and stealing under ; 
Sifting, with powdered pearls, the upturned faces 
Of small, bright flowers, that tremble all aglow. 
At this rare crowning of the stainless snow, — 
This unsought charm, that so completes tlieir 



graces 



Snow in October ! Crimson with the stain 
Caught from the crown of thorns that woeful day, 
A redbird — on the tree that moans alway. 
Conscious of the rude cross — prolongs his strain ; 
While wings and crest of crimson, (quivering 

brightness. 
Receives the stainless snow, the mystic whiteness. 



To Kittle. 107 



TO KITTIE. 

The stars are out, the moon is ridiug high — 

Come thou, dear love, aud sit beneath the vines, 

And gaze with me upon the glorious sky, 

As, up the vault, the crescent higher shines. 

Our evening haunt each flexile wreath entwines, 

With all its fragrant wealth of snowy flowers. 

lam alone ; my spirit inly pines 

To meet thy tender glance, in these sweet hours, 

To clasp thy hand in mine. Ah ! hasten here, 

Beloved of my heart ! I pine for thee ; 

And let me dream, that, from a holier sphere, 

A spirit blest comes to commune with me ; 

Vain is the witchery of this weird hour. 

If thou dost meet me not, my missing flower. 



108 3Iy Garden ishright with Poppies to-dmj. 



MY GARDEN IS BRIGHT WITH POP- 
PIES TO-DAY. 

To Mrs. W. F. Torrenie, Montreal. 

My garden is bright with poppies to-day, 

Ebon and crimson, in regal state. 
The tint of the dawn with a Tyrian dye, 

Imperial purple, they well can mate. 
Some are ablaze with mystical marks; 

Some like blood sprinkled on mountain snow. 
Spotted and streaked with rainbow dyes. 

In the dew of the dawning, all aglow. 

Some are shred like a sorrowful heart ; 

And some are fashioned like elfin sails, 
With silken awnings for honey-bees. 

That rise and fall with the summer gales. 
With a subtle perfume, like ripened fruit, 

They soothe my senses and charm my heart, 
When I clasp the precious capsules that hold 

The magical amulets, shrined apart. 

Some are tinted like urns of amber light, 
That deck the altars of sacred shrines. 

And the sunshine fair through the trembling leaves 
With a weird and mystical meaning shines. 



My Garden Is brhjht irith Poppies fo-day. 109 

O l)eautifiil mates of the tasseled corn, 

No precious odors are gathered up 
In jeweled chalice more charmed and rare, 

Thau the sweetness held in your emerald cup ! 

The rose is gathered for festal halls, 

The violet worn for love's sweet sake, 
But the fragile poppy blossoms and falls, — 

Few hearts to its magical beauty wake. 
But the subtle spirit that art hath shrined, 

We bear to the chamber of grief and pain. 
And the charmed odors avail us well, 

When the spells of passionate love are vain. 

For there comes a time when the regal rose 

And the violet's breath can naught avail ; 
Wlien we pray and pine for the poppies fair, 

That floated unculled in the summer's gale. 
The noteless flower that we scorned to wear, 

Yet the crowned queen of the summer time. 
Holds the nameless charm for the heart's despair. 

Sweeter than summer, or poet's rhyme. 

The subtle spirit distilled by art, 

Entrances and lulls the weary brain ; 

Only the beautiful greets the gaze, 

And the ear is charmed with a dulcet strain. 



110 My Garden is bright with Poppies to-day. 

The ear is charmed with the reaper's song, 
The eye with visions of tasseled corn, 

Where brightly, by dew and sunshine nurst, 
The poppies float out on a summer morn. 

I remember a chamber, dim and lone, 

Whence bird and blossom were borne away. 
Only the poppies, with subtle breath. 

Marked the mournful hours of that stormy day 
They gave back strength to the nerveless hand, 

They gave back light to the languid eye, 
And the faces of dear familiar friends. 

In visions of golden light, swept by. 

O roses regal, I own your charms, 

And violets dear, for love's sweet sake, 
But the subtle breath of the poppies rare. 

Only the depths of my heart awake. 
They charmed ray ear with a dulcet strain. 

They gave me a vision of tasseled corn. 
They lulled my heart to an infinite rest. 

Those elfin sails of a summer morn. 



Ida Hamilton. Ill 



IDA HAMILTON. 

Kentucky. 

Sweet Ida Hamilton ! Tlie dewy dawn 
Seems a fit setting for a gem so rare. 
Like rippled lengths of lustrous gold her hair ; 
Brown eyes that mock the startled forest fawn, 
Its shy, wild beauty to the shade withdrawn ; 
Her lightsome limbs, draped in a fabric fair, 
She seems a gladsome creature of the air. 
Standing expectant on the blossomed lawn. 
Of what her maiden dreams ? O child of light. 
Drink in the magic sweetness of the hour. 
Nature is gifted with a wondrous power 
To guard the spirit's inner life from blight, 
Her silent wakening countless charms unfold, 
Fair as thy tresses rippled lengths of gold. 



112 A Picture. 



A PICTURE. 



A poem written for Mrs. John W. Bishop, of New York 
city, after receiving from her a copy of the celebrated picture 
of our Lord and Savior, by Gabriel Max, from the "Legend 
of the Napkin." 

I HOLD in my hand the priceless gift 

Of thy loving heart to mine, 
The pallid face of the dying Christ, 

The wonderfnl face divine ! 

The jagged thorns on His temples press, 
He is faint — for the crimson tide 

Is sloAvly dropping from hands and feet, 
And the wound of the spear in His side. 

Oh ! hearts insensate, of mortal mold. 
That have not in His anguish wept, 

When even the Napkin's trembling fold 
The face of our God hath kept ! 

The marvelous eyes are piercing me 
And my heart in its passionate pain. 

Fiber by fiber is breaking, lest He 
Vainly for me be slain. 

I kneel and kiss His nail-pierced hands. 
For the uncrowned God I see 



A Picture. 113 

In the " Mau of Sorrows," who stilled the storm 
For Peter ou Galilee. 

In the tear-wet eyes of infinite love, 

That open and shut for me, 
The uuvailed splendors of Paradise, 

With the peniteut thief I see. 

No more the unavailing words, 

I count of gain or loss ; 
I look on the pitying face of Christ, 

I clina: to His blood-stained cross. 



114 Willie Ford Davie. 



WILLIE FORD DAVIE. 

Two Years OLD To-Day. 

I MEASURE his life by the sun-lit years ; 
I measure his life through no mist of tears ; 
I measure his life by the sun-lit years ! 

There are beautiful words that he can say ; 
To our Father's throne he has learned the way ; 
At morning and evening he kneels to pray. 

And if silence falls on our happy talk, 
In a moment he turns in his gleeful walk, 
With the question, " Mamma does you hear God 
talk?" 

He knows Christ the words of blessing said. 
For children — who watches his cradle bed — 
By whose hands the little birds are fed. 

In his forehead he bears a Kingly Name, 

To guard him forever from sin and shame ; 

And if God shall bless him, who then shall blame? 

O mothers whose hope unto Heaven aspires, 
We feed with the angels the altar fires, 
We sing the song with the seraph choirs. 



Willie Ford Davie. 115 

For Christ; the crucified, oil the cross, 

In the midst of the uttermost shame aud loss, 

Remembered the mother love ou the cross. 

Aud with blessings for children from blessed lands, 

An angel forever beside us stands, 

Bearing the blood-stained cross in his hands. 



IIG Mornimj on fJie Hllh of Kenhiehj River. 



MORNING ON THE HILLS OF THE 
KENTUCKY RIVER. 

Morning upon the liills ! The free, wild hills, 

Crowned witli the forest's unshorn raajesty, 

And by unfettered streams made musical ! 

Morning upon the hills ! The saffron tints 

That drape the eastern heavens momently 

Are deepening. Tlie lustrous living Hue 

Between is tremulous with ecstasy. 

And consciously doth palpitate, while beams 

The God of Day in goldenest glory, 

At the horizon's verge. His altar fires 

Quiver and flash, till the empyreal depths 

Glow in the kindling light. The priestly sun, 

Who ofl^ereth uj) the morning incense — 

Far down the luminous east, trail the deep 

Fringes of his sacrificial robes, purple 

And gold. Far and wide floats the broad splendor, 

And pours in lambent streams the rich libation. 

Even the shining drops of last night's rain. 

That trembling hang upon the swaying boughs. 

Are all transmuted into burning gems. 

The deepest recess in this ancient forest 

Is all bedropt with gold. And yon hoar cliff" 



MornUuj on the Hills of Kentucky River. 117 

Doth clasp ou its gray front a jeweled crowu. 
Earth wakeueth and greets the early light 
With all her myriad voices. Every tree 
Gives grandly out a different note to swell 
The diapason. Birds chaut interludes, 
And rippling waters breathe a soft contralto ; 
Through these green arcades waken eth the hum 
Of myriad insect life : and butterfly 
And bee glance in the air like winged gems. 
A*thousand flowers yield their fresh young hearts 
To deck the sun's bright altar ; and the air 
Is freighted with the ambrosial incense. 
In the distance thy blue waves, Kentncky, 
Flash in the glittering sunshine jubilant ! 
Even the patient oxen in the vale, 
With their nplifted eyes offer mu-te thanks; 
But the sobbing winds, a miserere 
Chant for the pale, dead night, and strew npon 
Her noteless grave dewy and odorous leaves. 
Morning upon the hills ! Wake tho_u, my heart ! 
If these insensate things such homage yield. 
What offering hast thou for purer light! 
For thy fair birthright of immortal hope, 
That brighter grows, though the great sun be dark- 
ened, 
And all this beauty perish like the moth ? 
Waken, my heart, and consecrate thy powers. 
Thy asjjirations, and thy deep affections. 



118 Morning on the Hills of Kentucky River. 

In tlie pure freshness of this early light. 
Offer glad praise like the exultant waters ; 
Like the flowers, that offer their full hearts. 
Offer thine inward life, as thy best iucense. 
And, if so be, that, like the wailing winds, 
On hopes that faded in their starry promise 
Thou sti'ew the leaves of passionate regret, 
Yet offer praise, that like yon hoary cliff, 
Thy life is brightened with supernal glory ; 
And the dark lone chambers of thy sorrow. 
Like the recesses of this ancient forest. 
Are every-where bedropt with most fine gold. 



Belh Hart Brent 119 



BELLE HART BRENT. 

1845. 

Will you have a sweet i)icture to keep in your 
heart, 

AVhence the sunshine and beauty may never de- 
part ? 

Then I'll give you a sketeli of an infantine sprite, 

As she plays by my hearth, in her childish delight. 

Like the humming bird flitting from flower to 
flower, 

She brings music and mirth to each dark wintry 
hour ; 

For her voice has the tone of the dove's dulcet 
lay, 

When she moans in the forest the long summer 
day. 

Her brow, where the blue veins are wandering 

through, 
Is as fair as the delicate lily-cup's hue ; 
And the soft flaxen curls, o'er the white temples 

shine. 
Like the tendrils that cling to the blossoming 

vine; 



120 Belle Hart Brent. 

Her eye, like a violet, all trembling and wet, 
Speaks an eloquent language you ne'er can forget. 
As she timidly glances the long lashes through, 
I can not withstand their sweet pleadings — can 
you? 

Her lips are like rosebuds, at morn's dewy hour, 
A.nd her cheek wears the hue of the unfolded 

floAver, 
With her small dimpled hands, folded close on my 

breast. 
Thus nightl}^ she sinks to her innocent rest. 
As falleth the snowflake, when storm winds are 

mute, 
So falleth the tread of her fairy-like foot; 
Yet sometimes the warm tears unconsciously start. 
As I watch thy bright coming, my bonnie Belle 

Hart. 

For I know not what pathways my darling may 

tread, 
Nor the storms that may bow down her beautiful 

head ; 
Perchance she may bear to the islands afar, 
The life-giving tidings of Bethlehem's Star ; 
And the turbulent waters of error may cease 
As she tells to the heathen the story of peace ; 



Belle Hart Brent. 121 

And their minds will forget the dark mazes they 

trod 
While she guides to the pure, perfect worship of 

God. 

How bright, or how saddened, her fortunes maybe, 
The dim, distant future reveals not to me; 
Whether early or late, the frail nursling of love 
Shall be gently transplanted to gardens above ; 
But as dew freshens daily the flower's pure cup, 
Be her spirit kept stainless till called to go up, 
And if first she ascends to that fair clime of bliss, 
It will solace thy fond heart to look upon this. 



122 Kennedy's Creek. 



KENNEDY'S CREEK. 

Dedicated to Rev. R. W. Cleland. 

SMALL, bright stream, I name thee Meadow- 

Sweet! 
Througli blue-grass meadows in thy lightsome 

play. 

Singing thy happy song by night and day, 
While woodland echoes the glad notes repeat ! — 
As pilgrims haste some Mecca haunt to greet. 
And gather amulets to charm the way, 
And light with sunshine, many a stormy day, 

1 seek thy spells to make my life complete. 
I do recall a time when, prison bound, 

I pined for violets, with such passionate pain. 
That in thy clefts had caught their purple stain. 
The heart-sick longing, shut out sight and sound, — 
The heart-sick longing felt by wounded things, 
When they have vainly sought for hidden springs. 



Horace. 123 



HORACE. 

Mother's heart iuditiug, 
Only poet's pen is writing, 
Noting, as you do, a flower 
Leaves unfolding, hour by hour ; 
All his pretty gifts and graces, 
Warming hearts and brightening faces, 
All his winsome, half-formed words, 
Sweeter than the song of birds. 
Countless coins of red gold shining. 
Countless white pearls intertwining — 
Flashing rubies without measure. 
Pale beside this household treasure ! 
AVondrous questions and replies 
Show his kindred with the skies ; 
Morning bright, and evening dim, 
Some sweet angel teaches him ; 
Who his Savior doth behold. 
In the city paved with gold. 
Even in sleep his tender dreams 
Ripple with the heavenly streams — 
And in light to us denied. 
He is borne upon their tide. 
Fairest child, Avhen davs are long. 



124 Horace. 

Thou to me art flower and song. 
In thy beauty I can trace 
Likeness to a baby-face, 
In its love-light all aglow, 
Very precious — long ago ! 
Soft brown eyes, and rings of gold, 
On a broad brow, manifold ; 
Therefore, when the days are long, 
Thou to me art Flower and Song ' 



Memorial. 125 



MEMORIAL 

Of Mrs. Kate Spears Alexander, wife of Mr. George B. 
Alexander, of Paris, Kentucky. 

"Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His 
saints." . . . "Jesus said unto her, lam the resurrection 
and the life. He that believetli in me, tliougli he were dead, 
yet shall he live."— Bible. 

I CANNOT bring rare flowers to strew 

The couch where slie lies sleeping ; 
I only weave a tender song 

For hearts that break with weeping ; 
For little children, motherless, 

Who look in silent wonder, 
That such sweet ties of earthly love 

Could so be rent asunder. 

Yet are " the sparrows" day by day 

Our Father's love attesting ? 
And shall not we, His children dear, 

Be on His promise resting ? 
Is not our Father's love as true 

In taking as in giving? 
Are we not " precious in His sight," 

When dying, as when living ? 



126 Memorial. 

So bright and evenly she walked 

Life's daily path of duty, 
She decked the smallest tasks of love 

With coronals of beauty. 
So lightly, gently held her hand, 

Joy's overbrimming chalice ; 
The angels came and bore her up 

Into the King's own palace. 

And still upon the crumbling brink, 

Where she became immortal, 
She entered like a little child 

Within the open portal. 
To me she was like summer dawn, 

So clear, so true, so tender. 
And I shall see her face once more 

In God's own heaven of splendor. 

Oh ! once within my open door 

To see her gladly enter, 
The little children by her side, 

Of love, their shining center! 
Oh ! sometime, angels, in our dreams, 

Sometime when we lie sleeping. 
Bring back that vision of delight 

To hearts that break with weeping. 



J 



To JAnnet. - 127 



TO LINNET. 



A CRUSH of diamonds ! Diamonds every-where ! 
Shattered and sown, like seed beside the way, 
The sparkle of their splendor mocks the day ! 
A thousand rainbows, rent from summer air. 
Imprisoned, drape the brown earth cold and bare ; 
The diamonds flash from every barren spray 
The grpsses, sheathed in diamonds, mark the w^ay, 
And moss-grown eaves imjierial diamonds wear. 
Broideries of seed-pearl, finely wrought and rare, 
Ethereal as the flounces of a fay, 
Wreathe vines, that like great coils of diamonds 

sway ; 
While perched upon my Indian arrov/ fair, 
A robin red-breast crooning to his mate, — 
'' For us, dear love, for us this royal state ! " 



128 In Years gone by. 



IN YEARS GONE BY. 

A Memory of Mrs. Amelia Hite, Paris, Ky. 

In years gone by — the time is long, 
Since thou and I stood side by side, 
And watched the river deep and strong. 
Whose waves from deathless life divide. 

A maiden fair, with sunny braids. 
Passed down with joy to meet the tide ; 
She hailed the light beyond the shades. 
With Jesus walking l)y her side. 

She said, " Old friends with joy I greet! 
They kiss my lips, they clasp my hand ! " 
And full of love, with willing feet. 
She passed into the unknown land. 

And next a mother, purified 
With sorrow's swift, consuming fire. 
Passed out from where the maiden died, 
By faith's stern ordeal lifted higher, 

Into the heaven of light and song, — 
And much Ave questioned then with tears. 



In Years gone by. 129 

Watching the river deep and strong, 
While Jesus vanquished all her fears. 

Dost thou remember, on the shore. 

How yearned our hearts to know that day ? 

And yet in tears while we deplore, 

As silent, thou hast passed away ! 

Enough for us, enough for thee, 
Our firm, obedient Christian faith : 
" No ear hath heard, no eye hath seen," 
These are tlie words the Master saith. 

We need no rash, irreverent hand. 
Unreal visions to create 
Of heaven, where vailed the angels stand, 
Angels who kept their first estate. 

The way by which God's lieaven we win, 
The " blood of sprinkling" hath revealed ; 
No more we need to enter in 
The joy to spirits blest unsealed ! 



130 The Lost Flower oj Cliaitfaiiqua. 



THE LOST FLOWER OF CHAUTAUQUA. 

To Miss Mary How, Walnut Hills, Ohio. 

"One of the legends of the Lake asserts that growing low 
in the velvet glades, under the highest hills of the shore, the 
enlightened eye of the Indian medicine-man could discern a 
tiny plant of such healing virtue and miraculous restorative 
power, that the sick came from distant regions to taste and 
live. There is no one now to tell which was the plant of mar- 
velous power."— Letter from Mary Cecil Harwood. 

A QUAINT old legend doth the history hold 

Of a lost Indian flower, 
That hid within its tiny heart of dew 

A pure and priceless dower. 

Where wild Chautauqua's waters kiss the shore, 

The wondrous flower was nurst. 
And Indian maidens in their ehon hair 

Braided its blossoms first. 

And through the pathways of the tangled glades 

Weird hunters of lost Art 
Came with fleet, eager footsteps, seeking long 

This wild flower's honeyed heart. 



The Lod Flower of Chautauqua. 131 

Still pressed by pilgrim feet Chautauqua's shore, 

Though questioned hour by hour, 
The waves, the Avinds, the lone crypts of the hills, 

Xone name the missing flower. 

Whether it wore a tiny crest of blue. 

Signed with a cross and star, 
The stainless color of the summer tide, 

The sunshine's golden bar ! 

Whether it wore a royal purple stain. 

Pranked with a golden shower ; 
Whether the flush of dawning, faint and fair, 

That deepened with the hour! 

Whether their crimson lights on distant hills 

Like flashiug bonfires glow ; 
Or w^hether sprinkled by the lake's lone marge, 

Whiter than mountain snow ! 

They name no more the perished Indian flower ; 

Echoes that once could thrill, 
Like unreplying voices by the dead, 

The echoes all are still ! 

And still by pilgrim feet the wild lake shore — 
Chautauqua's shore — is prest. 



132 Tlie Lost Flower of Chautauqua. 

And gems and gold are paltry if they find 
This wild flower's hidden crest ! 

Only a quaint old legend, heeding not 
The heart thirst for the flower, 

Tells only that it lived, was loved, is lost, 
Filled with a priceless dower ! 



Lines. 133 



LINES, 

SUfifiESTED BY A WAT.K TO THE CEMETERY AT FRANKFORT, 

Kenktucky, before Sunrise. 

Late I sought the cepieteiy, by the winding river- 

Aviiy, 

While the hills were fresh and dewy, in the prime 
of early day ; 

Groups of trees, in the sweet silence, spread their 
boughs on every height, 

Waiting, like the ancient Incas, for their sun- 
god's golden light. 

O'er the shaded, slumbrous valleys faintly gleamed 

the purple dawn, 
And like wing of ministering angel, slowly, lin- 

geringly withdrawn. 
Were the wreaths of mist uprising from the guarded 

night's repose. 
And their parting whiteness mingled with the 

morn's aerial rose. 

Over leafless trees the tendrils of the fragile vine 

were flung, 
And like gems from base to summit were the 

odorous blossoms hung ; 



134 Lines. 

Emblems meet of the fair mantle, charity so softly 
flings, 

Full of her own grace and beauty over mean, in- 
ferior things. 

Far below me swept the river, like a belt of silver 

sheen, 
And the birds their matins chanted in the temples 

vailed between ; 
Here and there the busy spider wove her meshes 

in the breeze. 
And ray spirit inly murmured, " Types of human 

hopes are these!" 

jNIidway up the sylvan pathway, gushed a spring 
whose limpid Avave 

To the mosses on its margin pure and gentle bap- 
tism gave. 

And the delicate white flowers, in their young 
hearts incense held. 

Such as Oberon and Titania offered in the days of 
eld. 

There were myriad winged insects, brightly glanc- 
ing through the air. 

For the time was full of life, and beauty manifold 
and rare; 

And I said, " If such the sunshine and the myriad 
fflories here, 



Lines. 135 

Wlio can tell the marvelous beaut}' of that far 
diviner sphere ?" 

Near the entrance to the city — silent City of the 

Dead- 
Drooped a fair young tree, with vine-leaves 

shrouding all its graceful head, 
Nun-like in its mournful meekness, at its still de- 
votions bent. 
And the greensward all around it was with peni- 
tent tears bes2:)reut. 

'Twas an hour for thought most holy, and my 

spirit turned to thee. 
As the needle, true yet trembling, turueth to the 

star at sea ; 
And I thought of happier summers, when thy 

heart its influence lent. 
And with hill, and rock, and river was thy gentle 

converse blent. 

Beautiful yet fragile fancies wove we in those 

trustful days. 
When earth wore a crown of brightness like the 

rainbow's changeful rays, 
Then we reveled in the sunshine, saw not thorns 

among the flowers, 
Half forgot the curse had fallen on this beautiful 

world of ours. 



136 Lines. 

But the fancies fair have faded, like the dew be- 
fore the day, 

Aud our paths long since were parted, thou, sweet, 
friend, art far away; 

Mournfully the waters glided, aud a moan Avas on 
the air, 

As the echo to my question mocking answered, 
"Where — oh! where!" 

Sadly I retraced my footsteps, down the winding 

river-way. 
And my eyes were dim and tearful in the golden 

light of day ; 
And I said, "Though Nature wooes me with her 

glorious pageantry, 
Redolent of bloom aud beauty, it is nought, bereft 

of thee." 



Mother, come back from thy Heaven of light. 1 37 



OH! MOTHER, COME BACK FROM THY 
HEAVEN OF LIGHT. 

Oh ! mother, come back from thy heaveu of light, 
Come back from the joy and the song. 

And hold me agam to thy loving heart. 
When the tide of my grief grows strong. 

When, like the Apostle of old, I sail. 

By tempests exceedingly tossed ; 
When neither sun nor stars appear, 

And the hopes of my life seem lost ! 

Bring me a branch from the tree of life, 

To bind upon my breast, 
That the wondrous balm of its healing leaves 

May soothe this wild unrest. 

Oh ! mother, bring me a vision of light — 

Of the beauty of the King — 
Of the blood-washed throng, who walk in white, 

Teach me the song they sing. 

Bring me a draught from the river of life ; 
It will cool this fever thirst ; 



138 Mother, mine hack from the Heaven of light. 

Until freed from sorrow with thee I stand, 
Where the crystal Avaters burst. 

And tell me, mother — speak low in my dreams, — 

Where, — near to the nndefiled, 
They have placed my boy, — and the new name, — 

That He has given my child ! 

Yet not for the sake of an earthly love 

Would I do my Savior wrong ; 
I kuow that His face makes the light of heaveu, 

His name the joy of the song. 

And sweeter if Christ shall walk with me 

In the seven-fold furnace fires. 
Than the inner Heaven without my Lord, 

To which my soul aspires. 

Yet, mother! come back from thy heaven of light. 
Come back from the joy and the song. 

And hold me again to thy loving heart. 
When the tide of my grief grows strong ! 



Wliat is the Charm. 139 



WHAT IS THE CHAKM? 

To Miss Dora Bridgeford, op Louisville, Kv. 

What is the charm, the nameless charm. 
That rests like a crown on her shining hair, 

That shimmers and floats in her delicate robes, 
Like the charm of the summer air ? 

What is the charm in her dainty hand, 
In the rippling soimd of her gentle words, 

That thrill the heart with a sense of joy, 
Like the songs of summer birds ? 

What is the charm of her maiden grace. 

That sparkles through blossom-scented hours, 

And glows in the changing glow of her face. 
Like the light on summer flowers? 

I can not tell, but she holds my heart 
By a power I know she will not break. 

And I yield to the charm, the subtle charm. 
That binds me for her sweet sake. 

She tinted with gold the summer-time. 
But now the beautiful day is done, 

And I turn toward the glow of her soul-lit face, 
As the sun-flower turns to the sun. 



140 Passijlora. 



PASSIFLORA. 

I WEAVE for thee a wreath of passion flower, 

The mystic, consecrated flower of earth 

That through the dying Savior's blood had birth — 

The Wossomed testimonial of that hour 

When hosts of hell asserted short-lived power, 

Crushed by the Godhead's might on Calvary — 

The atoning sacrifice for thee and me, 

The pledge and purchase of the Christian's dower. 

This flower doth ever wear the Tyrian dye 

Of the mock robe, the emblem nails, the spear ; 

The crown, the Cross, that marked his sufferings 

here. 
With mute appeal, salute the gazer's eye; 
O Christian hearts, do we with oue accord 
Thus bear the death-marks of our risen Lord ? 



Sonnet. 141 



SONNET. 

Oh, comfort me, my Savior, comfort me ! 

The jiath is dreary, and the way is loug ; 

I can not cheer these silent heights with song, 

If thy blest presence go not up with me. 

Oh, in the day of my calamity, 

Hold thou my hand, and make ray spirit strong, 

Lest I should faint and fail, and do tliee wrong; 

Cover my head, and crown Avith vict!)ry ! 

I worship thee, Christ of Nazareth, 

As the great God, who made the heaven and earth ; 

By whose almighty word the stars had birth. 

Who only holds my soul in life and death, 

Whose priceless blood alone avails for me ; 

O give me through thy death the victory. 



142 Wallace. 



WALLACE. 

In pictured beauty he will always stand 
Brightly before me iu his boyish grace ; 
A white magnolia blossom in his hand, 
The light of youth and hope upon his face ! 
The radiant tints all sorrow shall withstand, — 
No crush of age nor care the light displace, 
Forever held by memory's magic band, 
Beyond the power of death to leave a trace. 
I did not see his young life ebb away ; 
And, when they brought him straight and silent 

hid, 
With lilies heaped above his treasured clay, 
I could not look upon the coffin lid ; 
In boyish grace before me he will stand, 
A white magnolia blossom in his hand. 



The Kemhle Inspiration. 143 



THE KEMBLE INSPIRATION. 

To S. E. B. 

It was a dark and stormy day — 

The clouds were wildly drifting, 
Like bands of a beleaguered host 

Their brave resistance shifting ; 
And steadily the snow-flakes fell, 

The bare, brown earth to cover, 
While winds a miserere sobbed 

For buried frieud and lover. 

Alone within my silent home, 

Fearing the sad to-morrow. 
With tear-wet face I sat and ate 

The ashen crust of sorrow : 
AVhen, lo ! a step upon the stair ! 

A hand the latch uplifted — 
My chamber caught the golden glow. 

Like cloud by sunshine rifted. 

My heart leaped up to greet the light, 
To welcome the sweet comer ; 

Genius and Love stood hand in hand 
Surrounding me with summer! 



144 The Kemble Inspiration. 

They brought the flush to lip aud cheek 
By charm of their caresses ; 

With apple and acacia bloom 
They looped my fallen tresses. 

Through many a laud of old romance, 

Spell-bound in light, I floated ; 
Like the quaint dial of Italy, 

Only bright hours I noted ; 
The matchless voice of English song 

My heart and brain enthralling — 
Sweeter than breath of summer flowers, 

Sweeter than spring birds calling. 

If, in the stormy outer world. 

The winds were wildly drifting. 
Like bands of a beleaguered host. 

Their brave resistance shifting ; 
If steadily the snow came down 

The bare, brown earth to cover ; 
If winds a miserere sobbed 

For buried friend and lover : 

I know not. Love and Genius held 
Me close in their caresses ; 

With apple and acacia blooms 
They looped my fallen tresses ; 



The Kemble Inspiration. 145 

Old idyls of enchautment sang 
111 thought's diviuest raeasui'e, 

While, in a light elysian craft, 
I sailed a sea of pleasure. 

I only know the goldeu glow 

My heart and horae is filling ; 
The breath, the sounds of summer-time, 

My inner senses thrilling ; 
And memory shall hold for me 

This dainty delectation. 
Linked with the tender love that sent 

The Kemble inspiration. 



146 Somiet. 



SONNET. 

Psalm xl. 17. 

" Poor, needy," " yet He thiuketli upon me." 
Then name ray poverty magnificence ! 
Since it hath won me such blest recompense, 
Thoughts of my risen Lord in heaven for me. 
No deeper joy through all eternity 
Can thrill my heart ! Dim grow the jasper walls 
To the full SAveetuess that my heart enthralls, 
In the one thought, my Savior thinks on me. 

O Shepherd Poet, how thy tender thought 
Through centuries doth blossom and bear fruit; 
When days are dark and loving lips are mute, 
For all, the healing bahn is dropped unbought. 
O heaven of heavens, on earth ! O heaven to be. 
Beyond the grave, my Savior thinks on me. 



Louise Parrish — 3fy Child Friend. 147 



LOUISE PARRISH— MY CHILD FRIEND. 

"And if any painter knew her, 
lie would draw her unaware, 
With a halo 'round her hair! " 

—Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 

I PiAYE a wee child f'rieud, fair as a faerie ; 

Sweet as the heart of a Damascus rose ; 

Pure as the dew drop in a lily's cup — 

Sparkling as Phosphor, herald of the dawn, 

Yet shy and timid as a little fawn. 

Sometimes of her sweet favors she is chary. 

And speeds away from me with light, swift steps, 

That I may woo her with sweet coaxing words. 

My baby-bird, my winsome lady love. 

Then springs into my arms, and takes my kisses ! 

She walks the chambers of my heart at will. 

And by her touch wakes many a hidden spring. 

Her intuitions are like inspirations. 

So clear, so delicate, so marvelous ; 

She seems to shame the culture of long years ; 

The queens of art and song would envy her. 

She is embodied music, fine and rare ! 

No treasures costly I withhold from her ; 

But fearlessly I place in her small palm 



148 Louise Parrish — My Child Friend. 

Keepsakes most precious, for her pastime sweet ; 
Then she restores them to me daintily! 
Pictures and shells and marvels of lost art 
Receive an added beauty from her touch ! 
She can not know, sweet child of infant years, 
Bright baby-bird, that 1 have loved her so. 
Yet if I thought my name she would forget, 
When in my chamber I sleep silently. 
With blue-grass draperied and curtained close, 
My heart's deep springs would overflow with tears. 



Sonnet. 149 



SONNET. 

Dedicated to JIrs. Alice Brannin Gaylord, of Louisville, 
Kentucky. 

A SOVEREIGN lady in her own sweet right ; 
God gave her beauty for her matchless dower, 
As He doth give the fair and stately flower, 
That wakens dew-geniuied to the morning light. 
I pray God earth may bring her charms no blight. 
For beauty holds the priceless innate power 
To brighten with its light the darkest hour ; 
To jewel sorrow as stars gem the night; 
Her beauty is her crown, to light the way 
For pilgrims weary in the desert sands ; 
While tenderly she guides with loving hands 
Faint footsteps that perchance had gone astray. 
For beauty, God's fair gift, holds potent power, 
To charm waste places, like the stately flower. 



150 Ficciola. 



PICCIOLA. 

Dedicated to Miss Florence Andekson, of Paris, Ky. 

God gave the minstrel's art for her sweet dower, 
And dextrously she wove, with willing hands 
Lays of the heart, and lays of many lands ; 
Tracked to their magic source with Avond'rous 

power 
The streams of song, and brought a honeyed 

shower 
Of blossomed thought, sweet as the sw^eet refrain 
Of wood-birds chanting wdth the April rain. 
The violets' birthday in the spring-tide hour. 
To deck the prison walls where April shower. 
Nor bird, nor violet cheers the silent time. 
Brighter than spring-tide beamed her blossomed 
rhyme ; 
She brought heart sunshine by her subtle power. 
And the lone prisoner blessed her priceless dower, 
And named her Picciola, Prison-Flower. 



Emma Hickman. 151 



EMMA HICKMAN. 

Emma Corbett ! sweet old English fiction, 

So receive ray tender benediction ; 
Near niy heart I hold thee like a lover, 

Softly kiss thy time-worn, antique cover ; 
Stand where first thy sweet, pathetic story 

Crowned with April mists ray girlhood glory ; 
With the glamour, sorrow's cords are broken, 

Priceless words of love again are spoken ; 
Lilac blossoms fill the air with sweetness, 

Life is prodigal of fair completeness. 
While I wonder if some vailed to-morrow, 

Will make mine, thy tender love and sorrow, 
Still through tears, thrice sweet old English 
fiction, 

So receive my tender benediction. 

Emma Hickman ! No unreal fiction. 

So receive ray tender benediction ; 
Near my heart I hold thee like a lover. 

And again thy face with kisses cover. 
Queenly art thou in thy simple duty. 

Crowned with motherhood and wifehood beauty; 



152 Emma Hickman. 

Still arouud thee shines the f)virple glory, 

Caught ill girlhood, from love's magic story ; 
In thy blossomed, fair midsummer beauty, 

Fairer still for simple love and duty. 
So I turn, to bring from dej^ths of sorrow 

Something shining for thy blight to-morrow, 
Emma Hickman ! No unreal fiction, 

So receive my tender benediction. 



New Forest. 153 



NEW FOREST. 

to THE Mother of Mrs. Ann Maria Shackelford. 

Ah ! weep not at leaving thiue earthly home, 

All beautiful tho' it be, 
Wherever thy parted feet may roam, 

It is fadeless for aye to thee. 
Is it not mapped in thiue inmost heart — 

Each pathway and shaded dell ! 
Its blossoming sweetness, all hived apart. 

In memory's treasure-cell ! 

The floral children, that 'neath thy hand, 

'Mid sunshine and dew have sprung 
O'er the fragrant sward, by the breezes bland. 

Like shreds of the rainbow flung. 
Will float on the waters of thy heart, 

Undimmed by the touch of time. 
For memory's flowers are shrined apart. 

As they bloomed in their early prime. 

The mist-tree will wave in that charmed air 

Its amber and purple plumes, 
And the delicate blush-rose will be there 

With its matin gift of blooms. 



154 New Forest. 

And the jasmine, the nightly bloomhig flower, 

AVill offer its incense up, 
AVhen the angel who guardeth the dewy hour 

Shall sprinkle its emerald cup. 

The larch will its graceful tassels fling 

To the caressing wind ; 
And the broom, at the touch of the dainty spring, 

Will its golden locks unbind ; 
The lily, that hideth in lowly guise 

Her censers of perfume, 
And the iris, whose robe of Tyrian dyes 

Was wrought in a fairy's loom. 

The tuberose white, like a pearl that gleams, 

In the autumn's kindling leaves. 
The pure crown-jewel that chastely beams. 

In the shrine of her golden sheaves — 
They are thine, all thine, from the tiniest flower 

Gemming the glades below. 
To the rose, the proud, aerial flower, 

That maketh the sunset glow. 

The oriole's pendent nest will swing 

On the trembling aspen tree. 
And thy heart's chambers will softly ring 

With their gushing minstrelsy. 



New Forest. 155 

The birds that build in the ivy green, 

Ghmeing like jewels rare, 
They are thine, thro' every changing scene, 

Unharmed in that charmed air. 

And the human flowers thy heart hath nurst. 

Each dear, familiar tone 
Will fall on thy ear, as they fell at first, 

Soft as the sea-shell's moan. 
Ea«h lineament dear, of form and face. 

O'er these Time hath no power. 
They will glow for thee, in their winsome grace, 

As they glowed in life's vernal hour. 

They are thine, all thine, they are charmed things. 

All free from the spoiler's power ; 
They have won their life from thy heart's pure 
springs : 

These are thy priceless dower. 
Then weep not at leaving thine earthly home, 

All beautiful though it be, 
New Forest, wherever thy feet may roam, 

Is a spirit-haunt for thee. 



156 Look not thou upon the Wine. 



" LOOK NOT THOU UPON THE WINE." 

Look not thou upon tlie wine, when it is red in 

the cup ! 
When, like a flashiug ruby, it shall move itself 

aright ; 
Though like beaded diamonds the bright drops 

bubble up, 
There is madness in the chalice ! there is iufamy 

and blight ! 

Though a gentle hand mayprofier, with inimitable 

grace ; 
Though a rosy lip before thee touch the brim 

thine own would press ; 
Better lose the tender friendship, lose thy envied 

pride of place; 
When the brain with wine is poisoned, love hath 

lost its i^ower to bless. 

Can thy lofty manhood baffle the enchantment it 

shall bring? 
Saith the Word of inspiration : " Like a serpeut it 

shall bite, 



Look not thou upon the Wine. 157 

At the last, with the poison of the adder it shall 

sting ; " 
It will sap thy strength of manhood, it will cloud 

thy sense of right. 

It hath turned the tide of battle to dishonor and 

to shame; 
It hath crushed the wing of genius, in the zenith 

of its flight ; 
It 'hath dimmed the fairest j^rospects ; it hath 

stained the purest name ; 
There is madness in the chalice ! there is infamy 

and blight ! 

Ah! look not on the wine, when it is red in the 
cup, 

When the many shall entice thee with its tempt- 
ing, mocking light ; 

Though like beaded diamonds the bright drops 
bubble up. 

It will sap thy strength of manhood, it will cloud 
thy sense of right. 



158 Seventy Years. 



SEVENTY YEARS. 

For Mrs. Emmeline Basye Flannigan. 

Seventy years ! And the pathway seems 
Draped in the atmosphere of dreams, 
Blossomed arches, and glancing streams. 

Daintiest flowers, of tenderest blue. 

That in darkness, and tempest, had lost their hue, 

Are freshly bathed in the morning dew. 

Softly the old songs rise and fall. 
Friends we have lost are just within call. 
And the summer heavens bend over all. 

Where are the fever and fret of strife. 
That sometimes blighted the joy of life? 
For the very air with peace is rife. 

Little children, who climbed my knee. 
Cling with their dimpled hands to me ; 
I can see them, as fair as fair can be. 

The guide who walked in the path Avith me, 
Who loved me, and cheered me, and cherished me, 
How clearly his footsteps I can see. 



Seventy Fears. 159 

Like a fair vision the path appears ; 
Why should we dim, with regretful tears, 
The gifts of our God, these vanished years? 

For the perilous journey is almost done ; 
Through the Cross we conquer; Ijfe's setting sun 
Shines in its parting on victory won. 



160 What nextf 



WHAT NEXT? 

To Annette De Guerke. 

What next ? My life is, a fairy tale, 

A summer sea, with a favoring gale ; 
Summer skies that are soft and fair 

And a thousand perfumes charm the air. 
Every voice has a tender tone, 

And gentle the hands that clasp my own ; 
Home and kindred and friends to-night 

Make earth a place of rare delight. 

What next ? 

What next? The pathway I can not trace ; 

1 see not ray guardian angel's face ; 
So dark, so silent, the hidden land, 

I only know God holds my hand. 
I only know He has given to me 

This time for my blissful eternity. 
To blossom my heart, and fashion me fair ; 

And, if in His footsteps I walk with care. 
What next ? 

What next? A life so white in the sun, 

The watching angels shall say "Well done!'' 



Wiat nextf 161 

Lifting so high the blood-stained cross, 
That deathless souls shall not suffer loss. 

Patiently waiting, day by day, 

In desert places to watch and pray ; 

The weariest waiting will not be long, 

For the inner Heaven and the victor's song- 
Come next ! 



162 Hehe. 



HEBE. 



Hebe ! upon my threshold — like a bird 

That lights a crumbling temple, with its wings 
Waking the silent echoes, while it sings 
Arcadian melodies, so long unheard — 
By the sweet music of her lightest word. 
In the soft purple Indian Summer air 
The golden sunbeams braided in her hair, 
The silent waters of my heart she stirred. 
Lighting the lonely places like a bird, 
Retiuting memories that long had slept 
In the deep, hidden crypt, where tears are 
kept ! 
Wakening old harmonies so long unheard ; 
Old hapj^y memories of the mountain brakes 
Where Hemans sung her songs among the 
lakes ! 

Hebe! upon my threshold, bearing high 

Hearts of flowers dissolved in sapphire chalice ! 
The Elf-King's crown, pilfered from faery 
palace. 

Fairer than dream of poet to the eye ! 

And these for me ! I need no longer sigh 



Hebe. 163 

For lost enchantments. So, I drain the chalice, 
Ami win foreverraore my faery palace ! 
The crystal dew quickens the inward eye — 
Hearts of flowers in dainty distillation ! 
Only for me, these priceless Elf-land gems ! 
Olympus never held such diadems ! 
Nor chronicled Olympus such ovation ! 

Corinne was proudly crowned at classic Rome — 
I hold it worthier to be crowned at home. 



164 Owen Meredith's Fair Lucile. 



OWEN MEREDITH'S FAIll LUCILE. 

To E. H. O. Edwardia. 

OwfiN Meredith's fair Lucile ! — 

Owen Meredith's rare Lucile ! — 

The daiuty book I hold in my haod, 

The leaves by the winds of April fanned ; 

Daintily bound, in blue and gold, 

And the leaves, the Lilies of France enfold! — 

Sweet, and stainless, and manifold. 

Not more clear could a wizard's glass reveal, 

The Duke de Luvois, and the Countess Lucile; 

Than these fair flowers, reveal at a glance ; — 

These emblem Lilies of La Belle France ! — 

Owen Meredith's fair Lucile ! — 

Owen Meredith's rare Lucile ! — 

Never held book such fair completeness ; 

Never held book such honeyed sweetness ; 

Sweeter than songs, of the forest birds, 

Are the musical, magical, marvelous words ; 

Rich as the hue of the purple gloaming ; 

Light and bright as the wild waves foaming ; 

Trenchant and swift as the shining steel, 

That flashed from the scabbard for fair Lucile ; 



Oiven 3Ieredith's Fair Lucile. 1 65 

When Luvois awoke from his sorrowful truuce, 
To the old, heroic Knighthood of France ; 
And the camp was with angel grace besprent, 
While Steur Seraphine watched, in the soldier's 

tent !— 
Never held book such magical words, 
Sweeter than songs of the forest birds; 
They fall on ray heart in ambrosial showers, 
Sweet with the breath of a thousand flowers! — 
Oh ! beautiful sjiells, that genius hath wrought, 
From the pure and passionate depths of thought ! 
The hand of genius, that deftly hath caught 
And wreathed the divinest blossoms of thought. 
Yet the dainty book reveals at a glance, 
A breath more sweet than the Lilies of France ; 
My heart alone, owns the mystic spell, 
The undertone from the Fairy's Well ! — 
And the fairy haunts of Point Genevieve, 
Where the clouds, their crimson draperies weave ; 
And a sweeter face, the tones reveal, 
Than Owen Mei*edith's fair Lucile ; 
Only my heart, can own the spell. 
The voice of love from the Fairy's Well. 



166 Sally. 



SALLY. 

To Mr. and Mrs. A. W. Whelpley, of Clifton, Cincinnati. 

You will laugh when I tell yoli that the silken cars of my 
dog Dash are far more beautiful and precious to me than the 
coveted ears of the tiger, sent in a silver box to Miss Weston- 
haugh by Mr. Isaacs.— M. R. M. 

Ah, yes ! you say, why let such trifles fret us, 
As though it were an oriole's golden crest ; 
I tell you, beds of thyme from old Hymettus, 
Would fairly fail to soothe our heart's unrest. 

The saucy silken ears of Sally, shining 
For after dinner napping, near my own. 
Were far more suited to my homely habits, 
Than cold, unansweriug jewels near a throne. 

She loved me with a passionate devotion. 
Guarded my slumbers with such jealous care. 
Not favorite friend, gliding with teuderest motion, 
To break the coveted repose would dare. 

A dog will love you, as brave men love honor, 
And seal his fealty, if need be in death, 



Sally. 167 

"While sometimes human friendship faHs and fal- 
ters, 
In sorest need, with but a passing breath. 

I miss her bright-eyed, eager glance of welcome. 
Her watchful care of all she knew was mine ; 
And turn, uncousciously, for her glad greeting, 
Upon the homeward path at day's decline. 

She was more fleet than any Alpine chamois, 
More graceful than a brown thrush on the wing, 
And I confess to you, of all my treasures, 
I valued Sally, more than any thing. 

And I would give you all my regal roses. 
And books of eld, that geuius so endears. 
If I, for comfort of my noonday napping. 
Could lay my hand on Sally's silken ears. 



168 Sonnet. 



SONNET. 

"Shakespeare, the greatest and most original writer of any 
age, lays the scenes of several of his plays in Italian soil, and 
derives the plots of them from Italian sources. Shakespeare's 
sonnets consist invariably of three quatrains and a couplet, 
and onQ.can not but regret that he should have given the 
sanction of his great name to the least artistic form in whicli 
the sonnet can be written."— Article on the English Sonnet, 
from the "Cornhill Msigazine." —Eclectic, August, 1872. 

When Shakespeare would transplant from Italy, 
The dainty sonnet, intricate and sweet; 
What marvel if in English soil should meet, 
A depth of light and shade, more fair to see, 
Than graced the flower in native purity ? 
What marvel if the slender stem should greet, 
From such rare training, stature more complete, 
Than sonnet blossomed first in Italy? 
Does not each gardener give the cultured flower. 
Unconsciously, a tint from heart and brain, 
More regal than the rarest wild-wood stain. 
That nature gives in her supremest hour ? 
The grand old master of our English verse 
Lived to originate, not to rehearse. 



A Song for this beautiful Christmas-tivie. 169 



A SONG FOR THIS BEAUTIFUL CHRIST- 
MAS-TIME. 

Written for Mrs. Mary Hope Carroll, of Cincinnati, after 
hearing her sing the exquisite song—" only to see her 
Face again." 

A SONG for this beautiful Christmas-time, 

The fairest of all the years, 
With never a mark of carking care. 

With never a stain of tears. 
Only a tender, low refrain, 

A matchless minor chord, 
Only to hear her voice again. 

Only her parting word. 

A songstress fair, with golden hair, 

Sings the old songs to-night ; 
The holly-berries above her shine 

Like rubies, red and bright. 
Surely we heard her footsteps then 

Along the oaken floor ; 
We saw the trail of her silken robes. 

As she entered the open door ! 

Inspired the fair-haired songstress seemed, 
The small white hands I pressed, 



170 A Soncj for this beautiful Christvias-time. 

The face of the dead restored to me, 

Nestled upon my breast. 
For while she saug that low refrain, 

And touched the minor chord, 
I saw the face of the dead again, 

I heard her partiug word. 



The Grownimj of the Rose. 171 



THE CROWNING OF THE ROSE. 

Dedicated to Annie Chambers Ketchuji, Floiuda. 

I SIT alone all sileutly, 

At evening's dewy close, 
And pine to share with thee, sweet love, 

The crowning of the rose ! 
Her I'oyal beauty never seemed 

So perfect as to-day, 
Her inmost heart resplendent 

With the sunset's ruby ray. 

Her breath of sweetness charms the air. 

Like knights, the belted bees 
Outvie in knightly chivalry. 

The summer's minstrel breeze 
That kisses and caresses her 

From dawn till evening's close, 
Perfecting all her dainty charms, 

'Till she is crowned the rose ! 

The rose ! the rose ! the royal rose ! 

As wondrous fair to view, 
As when the angels saw her first, 

Im pearled in Eden's dew ; 



172 The Croivning oj the Rose. 

For God baptized her trembling leaves 

In that first dawn's repose, 
And sinless eyes in love looked on 

The crowning of the rose ! 

Perchance, perchance, regretful thoughts 

Thy trembling heart may brim, 
Until the falling tears like rain, 

Thy loving eyes shall dim, 
Of lone "Dunrobin's" silent walls. 

Where Southern roses blow ; 
Redder than sunset's ruby ray. 

Whiter than Alpine snow. 

And still I hold thee to my heart. 

And kiss thee in the mouth; 
And bring the " Old Kentucky" rose, 

Fair as thine own " Sweet South ! " 
In blue-grass meadows all unshorn. 

The queen of roses grew. 
By shower and sunshine brightly nursed. 

And crowned with twilight dew ! 

Then take the dainty wu'eaths I bring, 
They breathe a mystic balm ; 

Ring out the olden minstrelsy, 
Of Eden's crowning Psalm ! 



The Qrowning of the Rose. 173 

Despite, despite the siu that mars 

Earth's beautiful repose, 
Our love shall make an Eden for 

The crown in o- of the rose ! 



174 MattU' Givens. 



MATTIE GIVENS. 

Dedicated to Col. John G. Craddock, Editor of the 
"True Kentuckian," Paris, Ky. 

Dead in the blossoming April time ! 
And the low-voiced winds like a poet's rhyme, 
Embalm her with idyls, wild and sweet, — 
They strew her with, blossoms from head to feet : 
The winds are calling the livelong day. 
She hears them not — she is far away ; 
Dead, in her womanhood's golden prime ' 
Dead, in the blossoming April time! 

We say she is dead ! But they say not so. 
In the land where the Heavenly roses blow ; 
From the fever-fret and the soil of strife. 
She hath passed to the beautiful land of life ! 
To the land unshadowed by doubts and fears. 
To the land undimmed by the mist of tears ; 
And they sing as they welcome her on the shore, 
She lives forever, forever more ! 

Was not her life, in its golden grain, 
Fair as the joy of the angel strain ? 
Was there not stamped on her gain and loss, 
Through her joy and sorrow, the holy Cross? 



Mattie Givem. 175 

She measured the worth of life aright, 
Walking by faith, and not by sight, 
Did she not day by day abide 
In tlie uncrowned God — the Crucified ? 

How short the time since she wandered down, 
A tender child, thro' this quaint old town ; 
The liglitsome sound of her bounding feet 
AVakening the echoes in the street ! 
Be comforted ; Heaven is worth the tears. 
And denial of self through a thousand years ! 
For, freedom from death, and freedom from sin, 
Is the meed of all who enter in ! 



176 A Prayer. 



A PRAYER. 

Dedicated to Mks. Nannie Kenney. 

Give me an atmosphere of love and light, 
I prayed, led by the instincts of my heart; 
Lead me through classic paths, to fanes of art, 
I can not bear the darkness nor the blight ! 
Not where the dead are buried out of sight. 
Lead my faint trembling steps ; give me no part, 
With suffering or with sin ; but lead apart, 
In paths of beauty, gemmed with flowers, and 

bright ! 
Yet were ray footsteps led through deepest night, 
And all my company made desolate ! 
So that I couut all joy this solemn fate, 
That leads through crush of sorrow up to light ; 
That shuts my footsteps in from all beside, 
To walk the pathway with the Crucified. 



